


two fists above my head

by straysncts



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn, Underground fight club au, chan is a bodyguard for woojin, changbin teaches jisung how to fight, did i forget to mention that bare knuckle boxing is illegal, hyunjin leads a double life just like jisung, inspired by a conversation about hand to hand combat specialist changbin, its illegal in 49 states btw, jilix are best friends, minbin :p, seunglix (implied) + hyunchan, slow burn applies to them too sorry guys, with a sprinkle of angst! (eventually)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-03-20 16:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 66,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18996493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straysncts/pseuds/straysncts
Summary: He’d blocked one of Changbin’s blows through sheer luck, earning a small smile from the other, followed by a swift punch to the abdomen, and a stern, “Don’t ever let an opponent fool you,” murmured into his ear.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i know nothing about boxing or fighting but i did do a lot of research for this fic (my google search history is so fucked from it...to the fbi agent watching me i am so sorry) so please take any errors/mistakes lightly i tried my best 
> 
> anyways. i am just woosungist i cannot change that
> 
> i have a couple more chapters written out so it should be updated pretty soon!! i have more to write so itll be pretty long? probably my longest fic!!!
> 
> also!! this is my [writing twitter](https://Twitter.com/woobinsungs) if anyone wants to follow all i do is yell over any combination of woobinsung 
> 
> um. lastly. kudos n comments are my life force n keep me alive so they are very much appreciated as always!!!! [insert pleading emoji]

Jisung cannot identify the smell inside of the bar. It irks him.

It’s sickly sweet, almost as if someone used perfume to cover up the smell of something else.

Jisung decides to brush it off. It’s been awhile since he’d last trekked into one of the more upper-class bars anyways. He doesn’t remember what they’re really like.

He walks through the bar, mumbling _excuse me’s_ and _sorry’s_ to the crowd of people. His eyes dart back and forth, searching for an open barstool. He slides into one towards the end of the counter, nodding politely at the person next to him.

Nothing.

 _That’s what happens when you trade a good for time for quality_ , he supposes.

The bartender approaches him, and Jisung’s eyes travel up to meet his face. He’s tall, taller than Jisung, probably, and his eyes are kind. If Jisung squints, he can see a mole dotting the underside of his eye.

“What can I get for you?” His voice is smooth, flowing like water. Jisung immediately takes a liking to him.

“Just a beer,” He mutters, and reaches out to fix his watch. It’s a bit big on him, so the face of it is never centered on his wrist. 

“Beer?” The bartender repeats, and his eyebrows scrunch together. Jisung would’ve scowled if he didn’t look so good while doing it.

“Yeah.”

“Tap or bottle?” 

“Surprise me.”

The bartender sighs, clearly somewhat irritated by his request. Jisung watches him grab a bottle from underneath the counter, popping off the cap and sliding it towards him.

“Open tab?” The bartender asks, and Jisung nods. He walks over to the other side to attend to another customer, and Jisung finally relaxes.

His day had been borderline dreadful. There’s only so many times he can walk into the shiny office building of the insurance company he works at and not want to kill himself. Surely there must be more to his life than this.

He isn’t quite sure as to how he could fix it. (Other than nursing a shitty beer at a high-class bar he doesn’t belong in). He’s never really been exceptional at anything, never thought about pursuing anything other than a business degree.

So, that’s how Jisung ends up here, with too loud music blasting into his ears and a judging bartender appraising him from the other end of the counter.

Jisung scowls, glancing down at his drink. No one needs to see him having an existential crisis less than two years after he’d graduated college. He’s supposed to be happy, but Jisung is not as happy as he wants to be and he does not know how to deal with it.

When a teardrop hits the smooth surface of the bar, Jisung’s eyes go wide. He tries to wipe at them subtly, that way no one notices.

Across the bar, the bartender gives him a look, one that’s a mixture of concern and pity. Jisung frowns, pushing his bar stool back. Hopefully high-end bars still have bathrooms.

He makes his way through the crowd for the second time that night, hoping his teary eyes don’t betray his oncoming breakdown. 

After what feels like ages, Jisung spots a door. He pauses in front of it, wondering if he should go in. Something about it feels off.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the noise and music, but Jisung puts a hand on the doorknob, ready to twist.

A figure appears out of nowhere, hovering over him, and Jisung jumps, startled. 

“I’m guessing this isn’t the bathroom?” Jisung shouts over the music, making eye contact with the person. He’s wearing a dark green dress shirt, one that shines under the lighting, and it’s unbuttoned a part of the way down. He’s not much taller than Jisung, but he’s built. Even in the darkness of the bar, Jisung can tell. 

He swallows dryly, looking back up to meet the man’s eyes instead, and takes in his appearance. Blonde hair, dark, unfamiliar eyes. _He’s got pretty lips_ , Jisung thinks.

His smile is knowing.

A bodyguard, perhaps. One with strange fashion choices. Maybe his boss doesn’t care what he wears on the job. 

The bodyguard reaches out to not-so-subtly brush Jisung’s hand off of the knob.

“Storage room,” He explains, shooting him a dazzling smile. Jisung squints, wondering why it isn’t near the bar instead. It’d seem like such a chore to have to carry bottles of alcohol and whatever else is needed all the way across the room.

“The bathroom’s on the other side of the bar. I can get someone to show you, if you’d like,” The bodyguard offers, but Jisung shakes his head, backing away. 

Before he enters the crowd, Jisung turns to see if he’s still by the door.

(He is, arms folded over his chest, and he meets Jisung’s eyes yet again).

(His smile is warm, but Jisung has a feeling there’s something hidden underneath it, kind of like the smell permeating throughout the bar).

—

Jisung returns about a week or so later, his curiosity having gotten the best of him. 

The same man is by the door, except he’s swapped his dark green dress shirt for a black one. There’s a cap tucked over his eyes, clashing with the luxurious appearance of the bar and his own outfit. Despite that, he looks right at home, like he belongs here. 

Jisung meets his eyes, and his heart beats a little quicker when he nods at him in acknowledgment. Jisung frowns, turning back towards the bar. He sits on the other side this time, the one facing the wall with the strange door, hoping to be able to see the man outside the corner of his eye.

Maybe he can sneak through when he’s taking a break, or something along those lines.

The same bartender walks up to him, an eyebrow raised in anticipation.

“Lemme guess. More shitty beer?” He asks. Jisung barks out a laugh, but quickly replaces it with a glare. 

“Maybe I just wanna feel something for once,” He responds, but it is lost in the waves of music. Jisung’s glad. He really shouldn’t be spilling his heart to strangers.

When he gets his drink, he carefully takes a sip, trying to subtly turn his head. (He’s still there).

If the bartender notices him staring at the door, he doesn’t say anything.

As it turns out, it takes three and a half beers for the bodyguard to disappear, and Jisung’s stumbling out of his stool soon enough.

“You better come back to pay! We have cameras!” The bartender calls out. Jisung holds back a laugh, shaking his head as he worms through the crowd of dancing people. 

The door is still abandoned when he reaches it, and one look over his shoulder is enough for Jisung to fully turn the knob, slipping inside.

He’s a bit disappointed to find a long hallway, with a set of stairs leading down to another floor at the end. Maybe the guy was right, and this did lead to a storage room.

On the other hand, Jisung’s a little buzzed from the alcohol, and his curiosity has spread, so he wanders down. As he walks, the music from the club lessens, and is replaced by something else, something that distinctly sounds like cheering.

A little farther, and he clambers down the stairs, only to find another door. What he isn’t expecting is to find someone else standing in front of it.

“The match has already started, but you know the rules,” The person says without missing a beat, motioning for him to come forward. Jisung swallows, rooted in place. He has no idea what match he’s talking about. His first thought is a sports match, but there’s no way they’re hiding an entire stadium or field behind that door. Besides, that doesn’t explain the secrecy.

No, this is a different kind of match.

“If you don’t cooperate, you can’t come in,” and it’s enough for Jisung to step forward. At least he’s not underdressed. They’re both wearing suits.

He, surprisingly, pats him down, and, with a small nod, allows him to go through the door. Jisung’s heart is going fucking _bonkers_ , wondering what he could’ve possibly gotten himself into.

When he steps through the door, it all clicks into place.

There’s a ring in the center of the room, with a decent amount of people surrounding it. If Jisung peers over the crowd of people, he can see two figures standing within it. A shiver runs through his body, leaving a trail of goosebumps. 

That explains the weird smell. _It’s their way of trying to cover up the stench of sweat and blood_ , Jisung realizes.

Jisung’s heard about clubs like this before, the ones that use bars as a cover-up for something else, but he never expected to stumble upon it himself. It’s even darker than the bar, but not dingy in the way he would’ve expected. Everything’s pristine—save for the floor of the mat in the ring—and there’s even security standing guard throughout the room. 

If Jisung wasn’t slightly freaked out, he’d be impressed. Whoever owns the place runs a tight ship. (Not tight enough to keep Jisung out, but he’s also a bastard who sticks his nose into absolutely everything).

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots what appears to be a familiar figure, sporting a less luxurious appearance than the rest of the club. White t-shirt and jeans, paired with a baseball cap. His jaw drops at the sight, and his first instinct is to hide. There’s no way he’s here. Jisung’s clearly mistaken.

Either way, it wouldn’t be too hard to disappear into the crowd of clean cut suits and glittering jewelry, so Jisung does just that. Distantly, Jisung wonders how all of these people had gotten in without raising suspicion. Maybe through a back door, or they’d come in before the bar actually opened for the night.

He’s had a lot of practice making himself invisible, which is how he finds himself wedged in between a group of men, stuck listening to their conversation.

“Who’d you bet on?” One of them asks, and he flicks stray cigarette ash into a tray on one of the makeshift tables. Jisung’s glad no one’s sitting, otherwise he would’ve gotten caught by now. Being shorter has its advantages sometimes.

“Lee Minho. You know he never loses a match,” comes the response, and Jisung bobs his head, pretending he knows what they’re talking about. 

“And you, newbie?” 

Jisung startles, but regains his composure quickly enough.

“Lee Minho,” He states, and he shoves his hands in his pockets to hide any visible shaking. The original man smiles in a way that makes Jisung’s skin crawl, and he chooses to excuse himself, drifting through the crowd.

He comes to a stop when everyone starts cheering again, gaze drifting to the ring.

One of the men—Lee Minho, he assumes—is standing over the other, breathing heavily. He’s barely got a scratch on him, but the other guy looks like he just went through hell and back. A tremor runs through Jisung, but he can’t stop watching.

The other man peels himself off the mat, swaying slightly. There must be multiple rounds, Jisung realizes.

He should leave.

He really should leave, before someone realizes he doesn’t belong, but he can’t stop watching. Minho (Jisung assumes it’s him, because he’s deathly good, even to an outsider like him) moves quickly, and Jisung is amazed at how his agility and speed is more than enough to take on someone twice his size. Neither of them have any weapons either, just a thin layer of what looks like gauze wrapped around their wrists and thumbs. Jisung’s heard of this, too. Boxing, but without gloves.

 _Bare-knuckle boxing_ , he thinks, the memory floating up to the surface of his brain. All he’s heard about it is that it’s more dangerous than boxing.

“This isn’t the bathroom,” a low voice chastises, and Jisung jumps, clutching at his chest. When he turns, he finds the same guy from last week standing in front of him. His silky dress shirt is black tonight, except there are red stripes running down it. Jisung hadn’t noticed those earlier.

He smiles apologetically.

“You know what they say. Curiosity killed the cat, or something.” When the other man doesn’t laugh, Jisung panics.

“I mean, that doesn’t mean you should, like, kill me or anything, because you can’t explain my disappearance, and, also, it’s your fault for having shitty security,” Jisung rambles. 

The guy raises an eyebrow at him. 

“No one’s gonna kill you. I am gonna have to ask you to leave, though. Matches are for members only,” He explains. Jisung glances back at the ring one more time, shoulders deflating from disappointment. 

“How do I become a member?” Jisung blurts out, sparing one last wistful glance. The other man seems taken aback, like he wasn’t expecting to hear that from him. Frowning at the response, Jisung straightens his shoulders, jutting his chin upwards. He refuses to let his nerves get the best of him.

“You either learn how to fight, or you pay an absurd amount of money to watch.”

Jisung deflates again.

“Where do I learn?” Jisung asks, cautiously. It gets him that same wary look again.

“Listen,” The man pauses, pursing his lips.

“Jisung,” He supplies, wringing his hands awkwardly in front of him. His suit suddenly feels too suffocating, the collar of his shirt digging into his skin. 

“Listen, Jisung. This isn’t the kinda place for you, okay?” His voice is surprisingly gentle for someone who appears to be the exact opposite. Jisung swallows back any shame, refusing to go down this easy.

“What makes you say that?” Jisung challenges. The man purses his lips yet again, almost as if he’s doubting himself.

A moment of hesitation.

“C’mon. I’ll take you to a friend of mine. If he thinks you’re worth the trouble, he can train you,” He finally says, and a sliver of excitement runs through Jisung’s body.

 _This_. This is what he’s been looking for. 

The friend turns out to be one of the few people in the place who isn’t dolled up in brand-name clothing. He’s barely shorter than Jisung, with tattoos curling up his forearms. Even in the dark, Jisung can tell that they look nice on him.

He’s leaned against the wall, eyes trained on the fight that’s, miraculously, still going on. He pays them no mind, even as they approach. 

“Changbin! There’s someone I want you to meet.” 

The guy, who Jisung realizes must be Changbin, tears his gaze from the scene in front of him. Jisung tries for an awkward smile. He holds out his hand, waiting, but Changbin simply turns his attention back to Chan.

“Not fresh meat. What have I told you about fresh meat, Chan?” Changbin deadpans, and his eyes flit to the side, holding Jisung’s stare for a torturous second.

Chan shrugs, unfazed by the look in Changbin’s eyes.

“I told him you can train him if you think he’s worth it,” Chan admits. A scowl rests on Changbin’s face.

“Do _you_ think he’s worth it?” Changbin asks, and he’s studying Chan’s face now. Jisung’s breath hitches, waiting for a response.

Behind them, the crowd cheers, and Jisung doesn’t miss the way Changbin cranes his neck, scanning the ring.

“I think he might be. He weaseled his way inside, even after I told him it was a storage room last week,” and Changbin’s eyes fall back to Jisung’s, obviously reappraising him. Jisung straightens his back, puffing his chest out.

The moment breaks as soon as he does it, and Jisung feels stupid. He’s probably blown it, like he always does.

Then, Changbin says the words he never thought he would hear.

“Alright. Come by tomorrow morning. 7 am sharp. Just tell whoever’s here that you’re training with Changbin. Lets see what you’re made out of.”

—

Jisung wakes up frazzled with nerves.

He wishes Changbin had given him some time to prepare, because he honestly hasn’t worked out in ages. Still, excitement thrums through his body at the thought of finally doing something instead of taking calls from customers and filling out paperwork.

He rummages through his closet, wondering what one wears to an underground fight club. Definitely not a suit, or one of his dress shirts. Frowning, he reaches towards the back of his closet, and pulls out a t-shirt.

That’ll have to do.

When he arrives at the club, he hesitates at the entrance. It’s not locked per se, but he’s scared of getting in trouble.

He remembers Changbin’s voice from last night. _Just tell whoever’s here you’re training with Changbin_.

Jisung takes a deep breath, and pushes the door open. 

He’s greeted with the sight of a few employees, plus some guards lurking by the other doors. They all glance at him, shocked, and then the guards start moving.

“No, wait, oh my god. I’m here for Changbin. He’s training me,” Jisung squeaks, flattening himself against the wall. The guards share a look, before slowly backing away.

“He’s down the hall,” and the guard juts a thumb at the same door Jisung had gone through last night. He mutters a brief _thank you_ , trying to get out of there as soon as possible.

There’s another guard at the door leading to the room with the ring, and Jisung blurts out, “Don’t kill me!” before he can even think twice. The guard raises an eyebrow at him, and proceeds to burst into laughter.

“You’re the kid Changbin’s training, right?” He asks through a fit of laughter, and Jisung scowls. “No wonder he hasn’t been taking in any newbies.”

“Shut up,” He finally snaps, irritated. He shoves past the guard and through the door, clutching his bag to his chest.

The room is different today. No tables in sight, just a thin layer of padding covering the floor near the ring. He sees a few punching bags as well, and an abandoned pair of gloves. Jisung turns in a slow circle, searching for Changbin.

“Looking for someone?” 

Jisung startles, turning to find Changbin standing behind him with a small smile.

He drops his bag, surprised. God knows why. He _knew_ he was meeting Changbin here.

“Clumsy,” Changbin observes. “That’s not gonna pass around here.”

Jisung leans down, snatching it back up with a glare.

“I’m not clumsy,” He retorts. Changbin stares at him silently, but Jisung refuses to look away. He’s always been prideful. Felix calls it his hubris.

“At least you can maintain eye contact with people. Means you refuse to back down,” Changbin sighs, and he waves for Jisung to follow him. “That’s a good quality to have, you know.”

Jisung bites back a smile, relaxing.

“I’m assuming you don’t have gloves?” Changbin questions, stepping through another doorway. Jisung lingers, hesitant to follow.

“Don’t be shy. I need to find a pair for you,” Changbin calls back, and Jisung steps through the door cautiously, still gripping onto his bag tightly. He slides it onto his shoulders soon enough.

“You see, the thing about bare knuckle boxing is that you have to condition yourself for it,” Changbin explains.

“Because you don’t use gloves, your hands aren’t used to the stress and pressure, so you have to start out lightly. With these,” Changbin continues, holding up a pair of gloves. They’re fingerless, with a small bump of padding over the knuckles.

“Try those on. See if they fit.”

Jisung tries his best, but eventually Changbin has to move over to help, and his hands are gentle, despite the callouses that form ridges on them. If Jisung looks closely, he can see small scars tracing the skin.

When Changbin pulls his hands away, they’re trembling, just the slightest.

He leads him out of the room, heading back to the mat by the ring. 

“We typically start out newbies on the focus mitts, since the punching bags are heavy,” Changbin explains, and Jisung realizes that the pair of gloves he saw earlier must’ve been focus mitts.

 _Focus mitts_ , he thinks. That’s what they’re called. Changbin scoops them up from the ground, situating them on his hands.

“Mittwork is relatively new in terms of boxing, but it’s advantageous. Come closer,” He tells him. Jisung moves across the mat, until they’re standing relatively close to each other.

“Try it,” Changbin suggests, and Jisung’s eyebrows furrow. Part of him wonders if it’s a trick question, but he raises a hand anyways, twisting his body back. 

The _thwack_ that comes from his glove making contact with the mitt is pathetic, but Changbin’s expression doesn’t waver.

“Now the other hand,” Changbin instructs, and this _thwack_ is much more satisfying. He’s always been better with his right hand. 

“See? You’re weaker with your left. Everyone always has a hand they favor, but it’s best to condition both, just in case,” Changbin says.

Jisung raises his left hand, and Changbin nods at him to continue.

This time, Changbin pulls his hand back to his side, and his right hand jabs at Jisung’s stomach. He doesn’t register it fast enough, so he slams right into his abdomen, sending Jisung stumbling backwards a few steps.

He manages to keep his balance, but his breathing is slightly heavier now.

“I can see why you don’t take in newbies,” Jisung groans, but he sidesteps as soon as Changbin makes a move for him.

His mind races, trying to figure out a way to defend himself, but all he can do is watch as Changbin nears him, shooting an arm upward, towards his face.

 _An uppercut_ , he remembers. At least he knows something.

Jisung raises a hand diagonally, hoping to block it, but Changbin is faster than he’d realized, and his fist connects with the underside of Jisung’s chin.

“Shit,” He curses, clutching his jaw as he backs away.

“You knew that one,” Changbin observes, raising an eyebrow. Satisfaction creeps in when he sees the slightest bit of surprise trace Changbin’s features.

“I did research last night,” Jisung admits. If Changbin’s impressed by Jisung’s eagerness, he doesn’t say anything.

Jisung doesn’t know how much time passes as they go back and forth. 

Changbin lands more than a few punches, ones that’ll surely bruise, but Jisung stands his ground the entire time. He’d blocked one of Changbin’s blows through sheer luck, earning a small smile from the other, followed by a swift punch to the abdomen, and a stern, “Don’t ever let an opponent fool you,” murmured into his ear.

 _Don’t ever let an opponent fool you_ , Jisung thinks to himself, like a mantra.

When Changbin notices Jisung panting, he comes to a stop.

“Did you bring water? Food?” He questions, and Jisung spares a glance at the backpack he’d thrown down earlier. He hadn’t put anything other than his keys, wallet, and spare clothing in there.

Jisung shakes his head wordlessly, provoking a long sigh from Changbin.

“You have to take care of your body if I’m gonna teach you,” Changbin chastises, and Jisung perks up, eyes wide.

“So you’ll do it?” He asks, excitement flooding his body.

Changbin bites on his bottom lip anxiously, making Jisung wait in silence for what seems ages.

“I guess,” He finally says.

Jisung rocks back on his heels, trying to stifle his grin. Changbin doesn’t say anything else, just throws him a bottle of water and a granola bar.

“Quickly. We have work to do.”

—

“Oh my god. You got laid,” Felix laughs as Jisung tries to discreetly hobble his way to his desk. His cheeks flame red as he hisses, “Did not!” from where his desk is. 

Felix’s desk is right across from his, which means he gets to irritate him every single day from 9 to 5 until he gets tired of it. (It’s been two years, and he has yet to tire).

“Dude, you don’t have to deny it. Nothing wrong with it,” Felix says, but he’s got that shit eating grin on his face.

“Shut up!” Jisung whines, burying his face in his desk, and it garners another boisterous laugh from Felix.

Jisung’s lucky Changbin avoided his face during their training session, saving him from having to slather a shit ton of concealer all over it. He is, however, extremely sore from all the punches he’d taken.

He’d barely dragged himself out of bed this morning, but he knew if he didn’t show up, Felix would come knocking. He appreciates his friend, but there’s only so many things Jisung can handle in the morning.

Felix Lee is not one of them.

—

“I brought my own gloves!” Jisung calls out from the doorway a couple of weeks later, unable to hide his excitement. Changbin suggested that he get his own for their next session, and Jisung had happily complied. The worker had given him a strange glance, considering he’d stopped by after work. Jisung didn’t mind though. 

“Over here!” Changbin yells, and Jisung steps foot into the room, searching for him. 

Changbin reappears a second later, carrying the same pair of focus mitts from last week. He walks across the room, pausing by his side. He peers over at the gloves Jisung’s clutching.

“Oh, you really did buy some.” Changbin sounds surprised, but there’s a slight smile on his face. Jisung hasn’t seen him smile yet. It’s a nice look on him.

“You can’t use any in matches, but they’re a good way to start. As time passes, we’ll switch to gauze and tape instead, but that can wait until you build up the strength,” Changbin explains. 

Jisung nods wordlessly, slipping his bag off of his shoulder and onto the ground besides him.

“Please tell me you’ve been exercising in between training sessions,” Changbin continues, and Jisung nods yet again.

“The exact routine you gave me. Everything hurts, but it’s not that bad. I kinda like it, actually,” Jisung admits. Changbin hums in approval, and Jisung watches as he drops the mitts, moving his hands to the hem of his shirt.

“Today’s gonna be long,” Changbin warns, and with a quick tug, his shirt is thrown off to the side. He turns around, searching for his gloves. Jisung can see a tattoo peeking out, curling onto the bottom portion of Changbin’s neck. 

Changbin turns back around, walking over to the mat.

Jisung’s eyes widen. He looks away quickly, hoping Changbin can’t see how red he’s gotten.

“I’m not shirtless, idiot. I have a tank top on,” Changbin grumbles. Jisung laughs nervously, muttering, “Of course. Yeah,” under his breath.

Changbin raises an eyebrow at him.

“We’ll do the same thing as we did last week. Try to keep up,” Changbin suggests.

Jisung steps onto the mat, bracing himself.

—

“Do you know anything about Woojin?” Jisung asks a few days later, and Felix looks up from his paperwork, eyebrows scrunched together. He turns his head ever so slightly, looking past Jisung’s shoulder.

“Don’t look!” Jisung whisper-yells, but Felix is already waving, a dopey grin on his face. 

Jisung scowls. He should’ve kept his mouth shut.

“Why do you ask?” Felix questions, dropping his hand back down. Jisung spares at glance at Woojin over his shoulder, flushing when he waves. He nods his head in acknowledgment, and turns back to Felix.

“No reason.”

Woojin didn’t recognize him.

“No, seriously. What’s up, dude?” Felix presses.

“Nothing! I was just curious,” Jisung says, but he looks back at Woojin again.

Maybe he’d seen someone else that night. There’s no way Woojin hangs out at underground fight clubs.

It’s _Woojin_.

Jisung shakes his head, trying to pull himself out of it.

Felix is still staring at him from his desk, so Jisung musters a laugh, and asks if he had heard about what happened with his most recent client.

—

When Jisung shows up for his weekly training session, he cowers, and not because of the security guards this time. They’ve come to recognize him, actually. No, this is much different.

“Jisung?” comes the surprised question, and he squeaks in response, wishing he’d thought to hide. “What are you doing here?”

He shifts the weight of his backpack on his shoulders, trying to seem nonchalant. Changbin chooses that moment to enter, greeting him with a nod. Jisung tries to shoot him a look, but Changbin’s attention is elsewhere.

“Jisung, what are you doing here?” Woojin repeats. Jisung’s given a brief reprieve when Changbin glances back up, looking between the two of them curiously.

“Sorry, do you know Jisung?” Changbin questions, slightly incredulous. Jisung would be too, if he was Changbin. It’s not everyday he finds out that his trainee is friendly with the owner of an underground fight club. Or something like that.

Woojin turns to Changbin, narrowing his eyes.

“You know Jisung?” 

Changbin blinks.

“You know my boss?” Changbin asks him, hands on his hips.

Jisung glances between the two of them, trying to ignore the sweat building up on his forehead. 

“Changbin agreed to train me, and I, uh, work with Woojin. During the week. When I’m not here,” Jisung blurts out, all in one breath. Changbin gives him a curious glance, before shrugging. 

“Who you know or don’t know isn’t my business. Get warmed up,” He instructs. Jisung nods, sliding his bag off of his shoulders. He places it onto the ground, along with the jacket he had been wearing.

Woojin’s still staring. Jisung averts his eyes.

He steps onto the mat instead, taking a deep breath.

When he starts stretching, Changbin falls into place next to him. Their movements are practiced by now, Jisung being a quick learner.

“Jisung.” Woojin’s voice is so persistent that he stops mid-stretch, glancing up from the ground.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Woojin warns. It sends a chill through him, but Jisung manages to nod. He can feel Changbin’s eyes on him.

“I have no reason to do that,” Jisung responds, slowly. Carefully. Woojin raises an eyebrow, arms crossed over his chest, but doesn’t say anything else in response.

Jisung releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“I’ll leave you guys to it, then. I’ll see you on Monday, Jisung.”

The second Woojin disappears through the door, Jisung relaxes, shoulders slumping in relief. Changbin shakes his head, a soundless laugh rattling throughout his body.

“What?” Jisung demands, leaning forward to touch his toes. Changbin had stressed the importance of flexibility for the past couple of weeks now, a concept Jisung hadn’t really understood until recently. His fingertips barely skim the tops of his feet, and he has to hold back a grin. He’s improving.

“Nothing. Just surprised. Who would’ve thought Han Jisung would force his way into a fight club, only to find out he already knows the guy who runs it?” 

Jisung scowls, trying to veil his surprise.

“I never told you my full name,” He says, and he brings himself back up to a standing position. He lifts his right hand, tilting his neck to the left. Changbin does the same.

“I did my research,” Changbin responds. Jisung doesn’t know what to say, so he focuses on their warm-up instead.

_Most people don’t think about flexibility when they think about bare-knuckle boxing, but that’s because people assume it’s only about strength. It’s not. You have to train your body._

Jisung switches to push ups, bracing his knuckles against the firm mat beneath him. He hears Changbin’s voice in his head again. It’s become familiar.

 _You have to condition your fists. See, in regular boxing, you have about 8 inches worth of padding to protect you. Here? You get a small layer of tape. One poor punch, and it’s over_.

The first time Changbin showed him knuckle push ups, he’d fallen after a grand total of three.

Now, he’s well past three. It still stings, putting so much pressure on his knuckles, but Jisung is nothing if not determined. He’s learned that pushing his thumbs flat onto the mat helps make it easier.

Besides him, Changbin is doing the same. Jisung was surprised when he joined him the first time a couple of weeks back, right up until Changbin said, “I have to stay in shape, you know.” Jisung had promptly shut up after that.

He gives up before Changbin does, chest connecting with the mat beneath him.

“One day,” He begins, raising himself onto his elbows, “I’ll beat you.” Air fills his lungs, slowly, until his breathing evens out.

Changbin smiles. He turns his face to the side when he notices Jisung staring, before getting back up. Jisung joins him.

“Think you’re ready to go gloveless?” Changbin asks, voice carrying across the room. He’s moved to retrieve something. When he turns, Jisung sees tape in his hands.

Jisung pauses, apprehensive. One bad throw, and he could hurt his hand.

“Not yet. I wanna build more strength,” Jisung finally answers. 

“Good choice,” Changbin comments, throwing the tape to the side. Jisung relaxes. He walks back to his bag, reaching for the pair of gloves tucked into the folds. 

“Some people get too excited. They wanna rush into it, even if they aren’t prepared,” Changbin explains, positioning himself across from Jisung. “You’re either scared, or know your limits,” He continues.

Jisung musters a smile. Maybe he is a little scared. New things always carry a slight degree of fear with them. Jisung does want to do this; he just has an overactive mind. Changbin doesn’t have to know that.

Changbin cracks his neck, before lifting his hands up.

“Ready?” He asks. 

Jisung smiles.

—

“Do you have a crush? Is that what this is about?” Felix stage-whispers, and Jisung desperately tugs on his sleeve. “Stop looking!” He hisses, glaring at his friend.

“You know something,” Felix says, sitting back in his seat. Jisung drops his gaze, waiting for the person from H.R. to walk past. Felix peeks to the side, watching the person leave.

“I don’t know anything,” Jisung finally responds, loosely tugging on his tie. It refuses to budge. All this time, and he still struggles with it. Felix raises an eyebrow at him, loudly shuffling through his papers.

Jisung can’t risk looking back at Woojin. This morning, when he’d clocked in, Woojin had greeted him with a smile and a soft _Good morning, Jisung_. Nothing extraordinary, but Felix wouldn’t shut up about it. 

“Is he the reason you were limping a month ago? Because it’d make so much sense,” Felix whispered right afterwards.

Jisung had responded with a glare.

Now, there’s a question begging to be asked in Felix’s eyes, but the phone on his desk rings before he can do so, startling the both of them.

“Hello, how may I help you today?” Felix asks, as bright as always.

Jisung sighs, relieved. Across from him, Felix’s eyes widen, and he blurts out, “Excuse me for just a second, Ma’am,” before gesticulating wildly with his hands. Jisung gesticulates back, wondering what he could possibly be trying to say.

Felix shoves a hand over the phone’s speaker, leaning across his desk.

“Woojin,” He whispers, before returning back to his customer. Felix gives him a thumbs-up, winking. Jisung raises his own stack of papers, trying to hit him, but he ducks, using his chair to propel himself away from the desk. He returns soon enough, once he learns the phone’s extension cord only goes so far.

Jisung stifles a laugh. 

Felix’s eyes go wide yet again, and Jisung frowns.

He feels a hand on his shoulder not a moment later, and he jumps slightly, startled. When he turns, he finds Woojin standing there. Jisung almost laughs. _That’s_ what Felix was trying to tell him.

“Hi. I was wondering if you wanted to get lunch, maybe?” Woojin asks, pressing his lips together. Jisung’s confused until he realizes he’s trying not to laugh. He follows Woojin’s gaze, landing on Felix.

 _I’m going to get you_ , he mouths. Felix grins, waving at the two of them.

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Jisung responds, trying to smile politely. He grabs his jacket from his chair, standing up.

Woojin places a hand on the small of his back, ushering him towards the door. 

When they’re in the elevator, Woojin glances at him.

“You haven’t said anything,” He observes.

Jisung’s face falters, and he tries his best not to scowl at the other man. _That_ must be the reason why Woojin asked him to eat in the first place. _As insurance_ , Jisung thinks.

“I haven’t. Like I said, I have no reason to,” He responds. It must come off as more curt than he meant it to be, because Woojin cocks his head to the side, appraising. Jisung squirms in the silence, wishing he’d never said anything. 

Then, “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

Jisung eyes him warily.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” He answers, staring at the doors of the elevator. His own face looks back at him, distorted. 

“That’s not the only reason I asked you to eat with me,” Woojin continues, but Jisung doesn’t believe it. There aren’t many other explanations.

The elevator doors open with a _ding_ , and Woojin’s hand presses against his back again, guiding him out. The lobby is so much more brighter than their office, with looming windows and pristine, shiny floors. Jisung pulls out his security card, moving it to the scanner near the doors. From behind him, Woojin smiles.

“What are you in the mood for?” He asks as they step outside, sunlight hitting their faces. Jisung squints, looking back down at the ground. He rolls up the sleeve of his suit, checking the time.

“Ramen?” He suggests. They never give him enough time for a proper lunch. Most days he packs himself one, if he happens to have the time. Otherwise, Felix shares his. (He started bringing more once he caught up on Jisung’s lack of time management).

Woojin spares him a glance.

“Lets eat meat instead,” He says. Jisung’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t outright object. It’s been awhile since he last treated himself to a good meal. 

Woojin heads down the street, towards the right, and Jisung follows.

—

“So,” Jisung starts, “How did you get into the, uh, business?” The tips of his ears are surely pink by now.

Woojin smiles from his seat. They’d gone to an upscale restaurant not too far from the bar Woojin owns. It’s pretty, Jisung supposes, if you like dim lighting and scarily small portions of expensive food. 

“That’s a bold question to ask,” Woojin responds. Jisung watches his ring-studded fingers curl around the wine glass sitting on the table, bringing it to his lips.

Jisung waits.

“How long have you been training?” Woojin asks. The wine glass clinks against the tabletop. Jisung glances at it for a second too long, before focusing back on Woojin. He’s got a small smile on his face. Woojin smiles more than Jisung would’ve given him credit for, considering his night job.

“Around a month. Maybe more. I’ve lost track,” He admits. It’s probably been longer, considering he can get through their weekly exercises without much struggle. Woojin hums in response.

“Changbin’s good at what he does. He also doesn’t take on new fighters very often. Minho was the last one,” Woojin tells him. 

_Minho_. He was fighting that night, when Jisung weaseled his way inside. That’s why Changbin kept looking back at the ring with so much focus and attention. It makes sense, thinking about it now.

“You must be good, if he’s training you,” Woojin continues. Jisung can’t hold back his smile.

“I’m getting better with each week that goes by!” He proclaims, sitting up a little straighter. Woojin smiles at that. “Your turn,” Jisung adds, referring to his earlier question.

Woojin raises an eyebrow.

“The longer I talk to you, the more I understand just how you were able to sneak past security. You’re very persistent,” Woojin says.

Jisung reddens at that, ducking his head just the slightest. He isn’t exactly _proud_ of worming his way into this entire situation. If anything, he wishes he’d done it a little differently, but it’s too late for that.

“I grew up in this kinda world,” Woojin admits, leaning forward. His elbows press against the pristine tablecloth, creasing it. “My parents ran their own fight club, and left the business to me when they decided to retire. Nothing too interesting,” He continues, and he rests his chin on top of his clasped hands.

Jisung tilts his head to the side, curious.

“Do you fight?” He asks.

“No. They made sure I knew how to, but I haven’t fought in years. Exercise is my outlet, not fighting,” Woojin admits.

Jisung nods, unsure of what to say in response. He’s a bit surprised that Woojin would accept the business, despite not participating himself.

“You’re surprised, I take it.” 

Woojin’s more observant than Jisung gives him credit for. That, and he can be read like an open book by almost anyone.

“I just don’t understand why you would agree to run it if you don’t fight,” Jisung replies. It’s true. Why bother investing all this time and effort, only to not participate? Jisung doesn’t get it.

“Familiarity, Jisung. It’s all I’ve ever known. I may not take pleasure in boxing, but I know how to run a business. I grew up watching my parents do it. It only felt right to continue doing it for them,” Woojin tells him.

Jisung thinks about his job, how he did it for his parents and their happiness.

Maybe he and Woojin are similar, in that regard. Jisung went to business school, despite never having felt a passion for it. He got a desk job at an insurance company right out of college, working from 9 to 5 every miserable day of the week, just like his family wanted.

It pays well, but it doesn’t do enough to fill the emptiness of his heart. Jisung wonders if Woojin feels the same.

“That makes sense,” He finally says, voice hushed. The waitress comes by with their food, not giving Woojin the chance to respond.

Jisung’s glad.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Changbin doesn’t tear his gaze away from the match when Jisung returns to their secluded corner of the room, but he asks, “What’s your deal with Woojin?” over the yelling. His eyes are focused, arms crossed over his chest, like always. Tattoos—he still hasn’t figure out what they are—poke out from the sleeves of his shirt. Jisung thinks he should loosen up a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> imgonna try to update at least once a week...im currently halfway through chapter four so i have chapter three ready!!! still am not sure how many chapters this fic is gonna end up being i just know itll be Long considering the plot i have in mind
> 
> anyways all i do in notes is ramble BUT thank u to like. the ten people reading this i love u i would die for u
> 
> [writing twitter](https://Twitter.com/woobinsungs)

They move into the ring during their next training session.

It all feels so much more real now, standing at one end of the ring, and seeing Changbin on the other. He doesn’t have any focus mitts today. He’s got the same kind of gloves as Jisung.

Jisung takes in a deep breath, readying himself. He feels bare, without a shirt or socks on, but this is how it’s done. He’ll just have to get used to it. Across from him, Changbin mirrors his stance. 

“Don’t hold back. Your opponent won’t, so you have to do the same,” Changbin reminds him. Jisung nods, positioning himself towards the center. That is how matches usually start, with the opponents close to each other.

Changbin grins, the first unreserved smile Jisung has ever seen. It throws him off for a second, and that’s probably why Changbin’s able to land the first punch. He hits him right in the abdomen, knocking the air out of his lungs. 

Jisung had never really understood that expression until he started training with Changbin.

“Focus,” Changbin says, through clenched teeth.

Jisung scowls, ducking to avoid another punch. He steps back, successfully avoiding another hit.

“Offense, Jisung,” Changbin calls out, and Jisung complies. Defense always comes so much more easier to him, but it’s important to know how to do both, as Changbin says. 

_Every opponent you face will be different. Some prefer defense. Others prefer offense, but some are good at both. Those are the ones you have to look out for_.

Jisung grits his teeth, and he darts forward. When his fist connects with Changbin’s neck, right below his jaw, he has to hold back a smile.

 _Finally_.

Changbin stumbles, just a little, but it’s enough leverage for Jisung. He follows after him, jabbing at his stomach. Changbin curls over, coughing, and Jisung breathes a sigh of relief.

He isn’t sure where to go from there.

“Never assume the match is over,” Changbin grunts quietly, straightening himself back up. It throws Jisung off, the way Changbin can practically sense what he’s thinking.

Jisung doesn’t have the time to respond. Changbin’s moving again, bringing his hands to his chest. Jisung braces himself for the blows to come, but Changbin doesn’t throw any, or delve into one of the combinations he’d shown Jisung.

“Giving you an opening to work on your offense isn’t exactly realistic, but you need to learn it somehow,” Changbin says, and he lifts a gloved hand to wipe away the sweat on his forehead. Jisung swallows nervously, already nodding.

This time, when he moves, it comes a little easier to him.

—

“You never told me what happened on your date,” Felix points out. Jisung glances up from his paperwork, confused.

“With Woojin,” Felix adds, and Jisung’s head falls against the table with a muffled _thump_. He wishes he could explain everything to him, that way he wouldn’t be under the wrong impression.

Jisung thinks about the way Woojin had looked at him that day, when he’d first realized Changbin was teaching him how to fight. He bites his tongue, raising his head back up to meet Felix’s eyes.

“It wasn’t a date, Felix,” Jisung finally says. He knows he’s taken too long to respond, because Felix’s got a stupid smile on his face.

“If that’s what you say,” Felix shrugs, turning his attention back to the work in front of him.

Jisung frowns.

“It _is_ what I say.” Jisung’s voice comes out a little harsher than intended, and Felix’s face falls. It’s brief and almost imperceptible, but Jisung catches it anyways. He’s always been unusually perceptive.

Still, Jisung feels terrible.

—

During one of the matches, Jisung pulls Woojin to the side. He’s wearing a ridiculously distracting white silk shirt, paired with combat boots that shouldn’t go with his outfit but somehow _do._

Jisung forces himself to stop staring eventually, meeting his eyes instead.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence, newbie?” Woojin asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I just came to ask you to leave me alone at work,” Jisung blurts out, so confident and sure of himself. He raises his chin, just for good measure. He’s not taking no for an answer, not from Woojin. 

“I’m gonna keep your secret, but that doesn’t mean you have to make it hard on me. I don’t like lying to my friends,” He adds.

Woojin, on the other hand, seems amused by his outburst, traces of humor twinkling in his eyes. 

“Okay. I can do that,” He finally says, voice barely discernible over the excitement thrumming from the crowd. Jisung dips his head in acknowledgment, relieved, before spinning back on his heels towards the ring.

He has a match to observe. That’s the whole reason he’s here tonight, after all. 

Changbin doesn’t tear his gaze away from the match when Jisung returns to their secluded corner of the room, but he asks, “What’s your deal with Woojin?” over the yelling. His eyes are focused, arms crossed over his chest, like always. Tattoos—he still hasn’t figure out what they are—poke out from the sleeves of his shirt. Jisung thinks he should loosen up a little.

“Told him to leave me alone at work. I’m tired of lying to my friend,” Jisung says, slumping against the wall. Changbin shifts uneasily.

 _Someone else is fighting tonight_ , Jisung notes. He isn’t sure who, but they’re scary good.

“And he listened?” Changbin sounds surprised.

“Yeah,” Jisung replies, frowning slightly at Changbin’s reaction. He doesn’t understand the surprise lacing his voice.

In front of them, the crowd erupts into cheers, and Jisung forgoes his train of thought. He cranes his neck anxiously, trying to see what had happened while he was zoning out.

—

“I think you might be ready for your first match soon,” Changbin admits, a few weeks later. Jisung gapes at him from across the ring. The towel he had been using to dry the sweat dripping from his hair falls to the ground, forgotten.

Changbin smiles. Jisung’s gotten used it by now, to these small moments where Changbin seems happy. 

“Are you sure about that?” Jisung asks. He stills leans pretty heavily towards defense, and his punches could be better. He’s always been nitpicky about his skills. 

“We can always wait, if you’re not feeling confident. I don’t want you going in there unprepared,” Changbin responds, picking up his water bottle. Jisung watches him drink from it. He drops his gaze when he realizes that he’s staring.

“There’s a match every week. We can wait,” Changbin continues, eyebrow arching as he waits for a response. Jisung busies himself with picking up the raggedy towel from the ground, pretending to be deep in thought. The gauze around his palm itches at his skin. They’d gone completely gloveless recently, and he has yet to get used to it.

“If you think I’m ready, then I’m ready,” Jisung says. 

Across from him, Changbin smiles.

“Woojin’s already got the next couple of matches set up, but I’ll tell him you want the next available one,” Changbin explains. “Before you can fight, you have to do a full medical check up, as well as a drug test. Plus, you have to do it here, that way we know the results are legit.”

Jisung takes a deep breath. _Time_. He still has it. The thought is relieving.

“Okay. I’ll be ready by then.”

“You’re _more_ than ready. You could win a match right now, if there was one. Stop underestimating yourself, Jisung,” Changbin chides.

Jisung bristles, not used to Changbin praising him. He thinks about what Woojin said, back when he took him out to lunch about a month ago. It feels like all the time in the world has passed since then.

 _Changbin’s good at what he does_.

 _You must be good, if he’s training you_.

Jisung smiles at the memory.

He raises his fists, positioning himself, and asks, “Are you ready?”

Changbin takes a step closer, eyes gleaming under the fluorescent lighting.

“On the count of three,” Changbin says. The smallest of smiles dances across his face, briefly, before disappearing. 

_One, two, three_ , Jisung thinks, silently, and he moves like his life depends on it.

—

Jisung nerves rage from inside of him, a torrent of restless thoughts and anxieties.

When he steps out of the changing room some minutes later, Changbin’s pressed against the wall, waiting for him.

“You look awful,” He laughs, and he’s already moving to fix the tape that Jisung had clumsily wrapped around his palms.

“The trick is to use it lightly,” Changbin tells him, and his hands are cold compared to Jisung’s skin. Jisung watches as Changbin unravels and adjusts it, before letting go with a small smile. He holds out his other hand, and watches as Changbin repeats the same procedure.

“Woojin pulled some strings. This guy isn’t too bad,” Changbin says, slowly, as if he’s gauging Jisung’s reaction.

The nausea in his stomach settles.

“He didn’t have to do that,” He responds, softly. Still, the faintest sliver of excitement runs through him.

This is _real_ now. The match is starting in a matter of minutes, and the thought threatens to overwhelm him as Changbin guides him down the hallway they’d come from, back into the sleek room where the ring is located.

It’s set up the same way it was when he’d first come across the room, with the ring in the center and high, circular tables with equally tall bar stools dotting the rest of the space. 

The crowd unnerves him, a sea of crisp suits and shiny cigarette lighters. Jisung isn’t sure why they’re so willing to watch these fights unfold, but there is little room for him to judge. He’s a participant, after all.

Across the room, he makes eye contact with Woojin. Jisung dips his head slightly, acknowledging his presence, before looking back at Changbin, who’s hovering behind him.

“Is it almost time?” Jisung asks, right as the crowd erupts into a typhoon of noise. His opponent appears from another door, raising his fists. He’s quite tall, which at first glance is intimidating, but then Changbin’s voice during their training sessions drifts into his mind.

 _Size doesn’t matter, so don’t be intimidated if your opponent is bigger than you. As long as you’re faster, nothing can stop you_.

“Hwang Hyunjin,” Changbin murmurs into his ear, curling into his mind. His words flow through Jisung so easily, leave a mark like they’re meant to be there. 

When Hyunjin turns to meet Jisung’s eyes, he thinks he might pass out. “Dude, that’s the fucking bartender,” Jisung whispers, his voice harsher than intended. It matches well with the crowd.

A pause.

“Well, yes. You’re not the only one with a double life, Jisung,” Changbin responds breezily, a trace of a laugh leaving his lips. Jisung takes another deep breath, reminding himself to nod.

A referee climbs into the ring then, and Changbin’s hand dips into the curve of Jisung’s spine, pressing him forward.

“Good luck, Jisung.” His voice is gravelly, and his hand leaves goosebumps in its wake. Jisung smiles at that, making his way closer to the ring. He steps through the ropes binding it, and from that point on, everything is familiar. The feeling of his feet against the smoothness of the mat. The sweat trickling down his forehead. It is routine now, to be in the ring.

Hyunjin, surprisingly, smiles.

“Didn’t pin you as the fighting type,” He admits.

Jisung bites back a laugh.

“I could say the same for you,” Jisung retorts. Hyunjin’s gaze is calculating as he tilts his head to the side, sizing him up. Jisung hates it. The referee steps between the both of them, raising a hand to his lips to silence the crowd.

“Round one of Hwang Hyunjin versus Han Jisung begins now!” He calls out, the announcement punctuated by a whistle. It sends the crowd into a frenzy, but Jisung doesn’t pay them any mind.

Instead, he moves closer to Hyunjin, waiting.

“Well? Who’s gonna throw the first punch?” Hyunjin asks. Woojin’s voice carries throughout the crowd, reminding them that they aren’t allowed to talk to each other. Changbin says it’s to prevent trash talking.

Jisung’s slightly disappointed. He’s always had a way with words.

Hyunjin isn’t very patient, it seems. He lunges towards Jisung first, but his fists swing at empty air. Jisung’s too fast for him, and the thought is exhilarating. 

Hyunjin aims for his abdomen, specifically near his stomach, where it’ll hurt. Jisung twists reflexively, and uses Hyunjin’s brief moment of surprise to his advantage, knuckles connecting with his side.

If Hyunjin’s affected, he doesn’t let it show.

Still, Jisung’s not an idiot. He can _see_ the pain flash across his face, peaking like a wave, before it draws back into the water, taking the pain with it. They’re both panting already.

Jisung lifts himself to the balls of his feet, waiting. 

Changbin’s voice comes back to him.

 _You can’t always rely on defense. Sometimes you have to throw the first punch. It could be the winning one_. 

Jisung stops hesitating. He rushes towards Hyunjin, and feels an odd satisfaction when he hears the sound of his fist make contact with Hyunjin’s cheek, eliciting loud cheers from the crowd. Hyunjin stumbles backwards, and Jisung just barely manages to catch the scowl on his face before it’s replaced with something else.

Determination, perhaps.

If there’s anyone more determined than Hwang Hyunjin, it’s Jisung.

When Hyunjin moves, Jisung is prepared. He darts away, Hyunjin’s knuckles just barely skimming his side. 

Jisung can’t help it.

He grins, and rebuttals with a punch of his own. This one sends Hyunjin reeling, and Jisung isn’t sure where this is all coming from, if it’s from the adrenaline or months of training, but it feels _good_. It feels right, familiar, to be in the ring.

Jisung follows Hyunjin. It earns him another painful punch to the stomach, but he’s undeterred. 

In the end, he’s not sure how much time passes. 

It all sort of blurs together, the throws and hits they both take. Jisung swears he’s not biased, but Hyunjin definitely takes more punches than he does.

Eventually, Hyunjin is the first to collapse. Jisung turns to the referee, eyes wide, and watches as he counts.

When five seconds pass, the referee proclaims Jisung the winner.

—

Felix asks about his bruised nose on Monday.

“Trust me. You don’t wanna know,” Jisung mutters, waving his hand in dismissal. Felix arches an eyebrow at that, but silently goes back to his paperwork.

—

Woojin congratulates him a couple of days later, when Jisung’s headed home for the day.

Jisung can’t even bother to be upset that he did it at work, not when Woojin gives him a full-fledged smile, so unlike the cautious ones he’d gotten before. The pride lingering in it makes it even better.

“Thank you,” Jisung beams back. Woojin hums, stepping forward to open the entrance to their building for the both of them. Jisung walks outside with an unrestrained smile, pausing only to see if Woojin’s following. 

Woojin catches up to him soon enough, fingertips curling around Jisung’s bicep. Jisung stops, confused.

“Your nose,” He says, and he lets go of Jisung to trace the bruised skin. It’s still a nasty purple, dark against his skin. Jisung resists the urge to frown. He doesn’t understand why Woojin would care enough to point it out.

“It’s not that bad,” Jisung shrugs. “It’s part of the deal. I thought you would know that better than anyone.”

“Still,” Woojin sighs. He pulls back his hand, smiling sheepishly. Jisung’s never seen him like this. Unkempt.

Jisung can’t help but wonder why Woojin is paying so much attention to him.

“You did good. Really good, newbie.” There’s a hint of finality in his tone, like they’re about to part ways, but Woojin doesn’t leave. He falls into step besides Jisung when he resumes walking, and they stay together.

Jisung doesn’t mind, not really. Woojin has a calming presence. He hadn’t noticed that up until now, but it makes sense, considering how subtle it is.

When they reach a crosswalk, Woojin turns to him with a smile.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll try not to bother you after today,” and he’s gone, hurrying down the street with an urgency that Jisung doesn’t understand.

Part of him wants to protest. Tell him he can bother Jisung all he wants, that he doesn’t have to leave so soon.

He doesn’t. 

Instead, he trains his eyes on the crosswalk, waiting, like he does everyday at 5 o’clock. He’s still trying to figure out what he’s waiting for.

—

Changbin seems re-energized during their next training session, almost as if he’s been brought back from the brink of death. It’s nice. Jisung decides that he likes it.

“Now that you’ve fought a match, it makes things easier. I can point out all of your strengths and weaknesses, and improve your fighting style,” He explains, eyes eager and unyielding.

“For starters, you hesitate too much. There were a lot of moments where you had an opening, but didn’t take it,” Changbin points out, his gaze focused with clarity. Jisung grimaces. He’d picked up on that as well, and knew it was only a matter of time before Changbin said something about it.

“I was waiting for him to make the first move,” Jisung admits, feeling a little silly now that he’s voiced it out loud. Changbin shakes his head, motioning for him to follow.

“Waiting could cost you the match,” Changbin warns, slipping through the ropes of the ring. Jisung does the same, and they stand opposite each other. Changbin fishes through his pockets, eventually pulling out a roll of gauze.

Jisung watches him cover his palm and thumb on both hands, before beckoning him to do the same.

It’s eerily silent as he does so, and he can feel Changbin’s eyes on him.

“Done?” He asks. Jisung nods, throwing the roll to the side. It rolls over the edge of the ring, landing on the floor with a solid _thump_.

This time, Jisung moves first.

—

“Hi.” 

Jisung startles, letting out a pathetic sound at the intrusion.

When he turns, he finds Woojin standing behind him.

“Oh. It’s just you,” He says, exhaling a sigh of relief. He presses his hand against his chest, feeling the way his heart is racing persistently against his rib cage.

Behind him, the crosslight turns green, and Woojin nudges him, gently.

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” He murmurs, by his ear. Jisung shoots him a glare, but there’s no hiding the smile on his face.

“Who said I was disappointed?” Jisung retorts, a beat too late. Woojin laughs at that, and he moves so they’re side by side, shoulders brushing as they cross the street. 

Jisung isn’t quite sure why Woojin’s talking to him. 

“How are you? How’s training?” Woojin asks. His voice is soft. Gentle. Jisung could get lost in the way it folds and curves with every word.

“Training’s good. Changbin-hyung is helping me with my technique,” Jisung says. He’s gotten slightly better at offense. 

“Your offense?” Woojin guesses. Jisung stumbles at that, surprised. Woojin’s hand shoots out, keeping him upright. Jisung clears his throat, embarrassed as Woojin lets go.

“Yeah, actually. Was I that bad?” Jisung laughs, mixed with a touch of nerves. He hadn’t realized how closely Woojin paid attention to him. “Not at all. I just have an eye for this kinda stuff,” Woojin responds, smooth and forgiving. 

Where Changbin is all flat, sharp panes, Woojin is the exact opposite. Jisung finds himself drawn to it, to the gentle slope of his nose and the kindness in his eyes.

Jisung is struck by how oddly comfortable he feels around Woojin, how his words wrap around him with a softness he has never known before. He hadn’t expected him to be like this.

Jisung’s also quick to judge, so perhaps that’s why.

When they get to the entrance of the building, Woojin grabs hold of his arm again. Jisung looks up at him, confused, as they move out of the way to let the other employees walk past.

Woojin looks nervous. Unsteady, almost.

“I know you said you don’t want me bothering you at work,” He starts, to which Jisung is quick to nod. He doesn’t want Felix to know about him or Woojin. It’s easiest that way.

“Can I bother you at dinner instead? With me. I want you to go to dinner with me.”

Jisung blinks. Once. Twice. Lets the implications slowly sink into his brain.

He cocks his head to the side, wondering. There are only so many more times Woojin can pull something like _this_ , before Jisung’s curiosity gets to the best of him.

He shakes the thought away.

“Yeah. I’ll go to dinner with you,” Jisung agrees, watching the way Woojin has to refrain from smiling. It’s strange, how he holds himself back at times.

“Does today work for you?” Woojin questions. Jisung considers it, wondering what he’d tell Felix. _The truth_ , part of him thinks. He brushes the thought away, deciding that it can wait until later.

“Today‘s fine. I can meet you here when I get off of work,” Jisung offers.

This time Woojin does smile, and Jisung happily mirrors it.

—

“Let me get this straight,” Felix begins, leaning back in his chair with a stupid grin. Jisung holds back a groan, trying to keep himself together.

“Woojin asked you out on _another_ date. And you said yes,” Felix continues, raising an eyebrow at him. Jisung gulps, unsure of how to respond, especially at the implication that them getting dinner was a date.

Felix stares at him, waiting. 

“You’re forgetting the part where he didn’t call it a date,” Jisung points out, voice small and spread thin. Felix sighs heavily, giving him an annoyed look.

Jisung watches as Felix’s eyes shift, moving to where Woojin’s desk is situated instead. They stay there for a brief moment, flitting back to Jisung soon enough.

“I think he likes you,” Felix says then, completely disregarding Jisung’s previous statement. Jisung frowns at Felix’s confession, knowing there’s no way that it could be true.

Besides, there’s probably some unspoken rule about dating the guy who runs the underground fight club you fight at, or something along those lines.

—

“Felix thinks it’s a date,” Jisung confesses over a bottle of soju and fried pork. No fancy restaurant this time, just the hole-in-the-wall place Woojin had sworn his life on when they were walking.

“Do _you_ think it’s a date?” comes the poised question back. Woojin’s holding back a smile from across the table, sleeves of his white button-up pushed to his elbows. He’d discarded his suit jacket a while back. His eyes are sharp, but when Jisung looks into them, he finds nothing but kindness. 

Jisung hesitates, trying to think of a decent way to respond. 

“Only if you do,” Jisung finally admits, busying himself with the pork cooking right in front of him. He flips a few of the pieces, and moves some onto Woojin’s plate, avoiding his eyes all the meanwhile.

“I do,” Woojin says.

Jisung can’t help it. He breaks out into a full-on smile, meeting Woojin’s gaze across the table. Woojin’s got the tiniest of smiles on his face, and the sight is beyond reassuring.

Woojin’s got this sort of tenderness to his smiles, the same kind seen within the irises of his eyes. Jisung likes that about Woojin, the sense of safety he feels when he’s in his presence. 

He’s not sure where to go from here. The soju burns his throat, and when he looks up, Woojin’s smiling.

“What?” He demands, before realizing it may not be the best way to respond. Woojin seems unaffected by his tone of voice. He’s less rigid than all the other times Jisung has seen him. 

“Nothing.” Woojin’s still smiling.

Jisung doesn’t question it any further, choosing to go back to his food.

Later, Jisung learns that Woojin is extremely polite. He isn’t quite sure why he assumed otherwise ( _It’s because of his line of work_ , the stupid voice inside his head tells him), but he finds himself surprised nonetheless.

“You really don’t have to walk me home,” Jisung protests, sliding out of his chair. Woojin’s standing nearby, with Jisung’s coat in his hand. He lets Woojin drape it across his shoulders.

“How else am I gonna know you got home safely?” Woojin asks.

Jisung twists to stare at him.

“I could text you?” He offers, before he can even consider the idea any further. His heart hammers against his chest, refusing to calm down. This is unknown territory for Jisung. 

Not romantically, per se. He’s had his fair share of dates and relationships, but he’s not sure if there’s some sort of step by step guidelines to follow when your sort-of-but-not-really boss wants to walk you home, or maybe he’s fixating on the semantics of it all more than he has to, and he needs to think less instead.

 _Think less_. If only.

“That works,” Woojin agrees. Jisung’s glad he chose not to push the issue, that he has the ability to take _no_ for an answer.

Woojin pulls out his phone from within the confines of his jacket when they walk outside, passing it to Jisung with a practiced ease.

Jisung sets his contact name as _newbie_.

When he hands the phone back, Woojin smiles. Jisung thinks he looks nice under the glow of the streetlights.

“Get home safe, newbie,” He says. It’s Jisung’s turn to smile. 

—

Felix is draped across his couch a few days later, consuming anything edible in sight.

“I literally went grocery shopping the other day! You can’t eat everything!” Jisung complains. Felix’s head pops back up from the cushions, half of a Cheeto hanging out of his mouth.

“I’m not eating everything!” Felix shoots back. “Besides, I was right about it being a date, so you owe me,” He continues, voice muffled from the copious amount of food he’s shoved inside of his mouth. Jisung kicks at him, glaring.

“In my defense, he said nothing about a date until after my conversation with you,” Jisung retorts. He folds his arms across his chest, but can’t fight back a smile when Felix looks at him happily.

“You have Cheeto dust on your cheek,” Jisung mutters, turning his attention back to the television in front of them. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Felix wiping at his face.

“So? How was it?” Felix asks, adjusting himself so his legs are draped across Jisung’s lap. “What’s he like? He’s kinda quiet at work,” Felix says.

Jisung shrugs, but his mind goes back to their dinner. Woojin _is_ quiet, even outside of work.

“Don’t tell me you guys just sat in silence the entire time,” Felix deadpans, letting his head fall back against the couch pillow. 

“We didn’t,” Jisung retorts, but his face burns. They really hadn’t sat in silence; it’s just that Jisung tended to fill any awkward silences with his rambling, which didn’t leave much room for Woojin to talk.

“Let me guess. You wouldn’t shut up,” Felix says, almost as if he can read his mind. He’s switched over to popcorn now, shoving a handful into his mouth.

Jisung is horrified. He’s never seen someone eat so much.

“Dude, breathe.” 

Felix shoots him a grateful smile.

“I didn’t even realize how much I talked until now,” Jisung admits, resting his face in his hands. He can feel Felix shifting yet again, and when he pulls his hands away, Felix is sitting up.

“I’m sure he thought you were cute,” Felix insists. He leans towards the table, grabbing a pack of candy. Jisung doesn’t know what to say.

“Knowing you, you’re probably gonna mope over it, so you might as well eat your feelings.” 

Jisung accepts the candy from his hands with a smile.

—

Changbin tells him the match won’t be easy.

“You have to learn somehow. I can’t always give you easy opponents,” Changbin admits, glancing to the other side of the room, where Jisung’s opponent is waiting.

“Seungmin’s around your age, but he grew up into this kind of life. Here, fighting pays bills. Student loans. Debts owed. They all have a purpose.”

Jisung thinks about the Rolex he takes off each time he changes, the expensive suit he sheds. The looks he gets from other fighters.

“Minho’s been training him, along with a couple of other new guys,” Changbin tells him, and he glances across the room with an unreadable expression on his face. 

“I’m gonna lose,” He decides, right then and there. He’s seen Minho fight before, and that means his students must be just as good. Changbin sighs at that, patting Jisung’s cheek with a free hand to get his attention.

“Hey. Listen to me. Remember what I taught you, and you’ll be fine,” He reassures, before pushing him by the shoulders. He jerks his head towards the ring, murmuring, “Get inside. The match is starting soon.”

Jisung takes a deep breath, and obeys, climbing up through the ropes.

He can tell Seungmin’s a veteran fighter from the start, considering the scars that mark his body. It should make Jisung uneasy, but all he feels is calmness settling over him. 

It’s oddly strange, how much he’s changed in the months that have gone by. He can hold his own in a fight. It’s reinvigorating, to test his strengths and boundaries. To be passionate about something in his life. Jisung wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Standing a mere two and a half feet away, Seungmin tilts his head to the side with a smile. He’s got a sort of fierceness in his eyes, one that would be more intimidating if they weren’t the same height. The cherry tint of his hair matches the color of Jisung’s face.

“Good luck.” 

“You too,” Jisung says, bowing his head in acknowledgment. 

“Not necessary, but the thought is appreciated,” Seungmin responds, eyes flicking back to the referee. A tense couple of seconds pass before the whistle blows, and Jisung’s mind reflexively narrows to the newly familiar world surrounding him.

Once Seungmin starts moving, Jisung is certain he’s going to lose.

Seungmin’s agile on his feet, moving with a quickness Jisung has never faced before. He can hear the crowd egging Seungmin on, and rightfully so. He’s scarily good.

Jisung can’t even find any weaknesses, any moments to slip past his guard and land a punch. He finds himself on defense most of the time, which is an issue, considering Seungmin can’t get him, and Jisung can’t get him.

One of them will tire eventually. Let their guard down. Jisung thinks it’ll be him. Seungmin is so much more alert and focused; Jisung can’t imagine him getting distracted, or worn out. He’s been fighting for too long.

Still, Jisung refuses to go down without a fight.

—

Woojin tends to him afterwards.

There’s stand-by medics and an ambulance for every match, but he waves them off, saying he’s done this enough times throughout the course of his life.

“My parents didn’t have medics when they ran the place, and I was really into science when I was growing up, so the responsibility fell to me,” Woojin explains. He trickles antiseptic onto a cotton pad, and looks him in the eyes.

“It’s gonna sting,” He says, gently. Jisung manages a smile, and gestures for him to continue. Woojin runs the swab across his cheek. When he pulls it away, it’s stained with blood.

“I think you’re supposed to wipe all the blood off before you do that,” Jisung points out, weakly. The sight of his own blood leaves him dazed./

“I did,” Woojin responds, and Jisung thinks the cut might be deeper than he had realized.

“I don’t need stitches, do I?” Jisung asks, a hint of worry bleeding through his words.

Woojin’s fingers rest under his chin, tilting his head upwards. Jisung swallows nervously. He isn’t used to having Woojin’s eyes on him, not like this.

“No. You should be fine. I have to see about your other injuries, though.” Jisung likes listening to Woojin speak. It’s so calming, listening to the softness and quietness that comes with it.

Woojin must notice him zoning out, because he nudges his shoulder.

“Earth to newbie,” He says, softly. Jisung snaps out of it, looking up at him with a smile. He’s perched on the counter in the locker room, Woojin standing between his legs. It’s strange, being so close to Woojin.

 _He has to be close for this, idiot_ , he tells himself. Still, Jisung likes it. From this angle, he can see the spot Woojin had missed while shaving, and the dark roots of his hair, making him realizing that Woojin’s hair isn’t a natural shade of red, like he’d previously assumed. From this angle, he can see all the things that make Woojin human.

“Are you okay?” Woojin asks, jerking Jisung out of his thoughts. Woojin smiles warmly, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes. It’s strangely intimate.

“I’m fine. Just sore,” Jisung says, clearing his throat. Woojin moves back, just the slightest.

He’s staring, but Jisung doesn’t have anything else to say. Maybe his pride and ego took a small hit tonight, but that’s not worth mentioning. He still enjoyed the match; Seungmin had near flawless technique. He’s been itching to ask Changbin about it ever since the match ended, but Woojin had insisted on patching him up first.

“Some people find it hard,” Woojin tells him, quietly. “To make a comeback after their first loss, I mean,” He adds. Jisung looks up at him. Sitting makes him feel even shorter than Woojin.

“It had to happen eventually,” Jisung shrugs. He can’t tell if he’s reassuring himself or Woojin more.

“Besides, it’s not about winning. I did this because I wanted something more from my life. I don’t really appreciate the whole looking-at-me-like-I’m-a-kicked-puppy thing,” Jisung adds, frowning. To his credit, Woojin doesn’t look hurt by his words. Instead, he laughs.

“You’re gonna do just fine here, Jisung,” He says. Jisung finds himself smiling at that.

“You think so?” He questions. Woojin nods, grabbing the box of bandaids from the countertop. He opens the pack carefully, and gestures for Jisung to lean back.

For a second, Jisung thinks he’s going to put one on his face, but Woojin’s hand brushes over his stomach instead, fingertips tracing around the wound. Jisung can’t tell if it’s still bleeding, or if the blood has dried up by now.

“That’s gonna take awhile to heal. Be careful,” He murmurs. Woojin grabs a cotton pad, antiseptic free, to wipe off any remaining blood. He reaches for a second one, pouring antiseptic onto it. He swipes it across the wound, causing Jisung to flinch, and then carefully places the bandaid over it.

“Does it hurt?” He asks, quietly. 

Jisung wants to lie, and say that he doesn’t feel much pain, but, in all honesty, every nerve in his body is on fire. It’s different than the last match, but he’d won that one.

“Yeah, actually. It does,” Jisung admits, weakly. “Worse than the last match. Or any training session with Changbin.”

Woojin laughs at that, shaking his head.

“He can be a little tough,” Woojin says. Jisung bobs his head, smiling.

Woojin looks over him one last time, stepping away carefully. Jisung takes that as his cue to get off of the counter, sliding off with as much grace as he can muster. He turns to look at himself in the mirror, flinching at the array of fresh bruises and bandages. There’s a streak of blood on his abdomen, one that Woojin must’ve missed earlier. He tries not to dwell on it.

“I’ve seen worse,” Woojin comments. Jisung latches onto those words like they’re a lifeline.

He sighs, and moves towards the countertop again. He’d left his shirt around here somewhere. It takes him a second, but he finds it buried underneath the mound of medical supplies Woojin had hauled in with him. He slips it on slowly, wincing with every movement.

Woojin steps back so he’s by his side, and rummages through the supplies until he triumphantly holds up a small tube.

“Topical antibiotic cream. Change your bandages every couple of days, and apply it over the wound to avoid infection. You can see our doctor if you experience anything strange,” he explains, handing it over to him.

Jisung takes the antibiotic with a small smile.

“I’ll see you at work, newbie,” Woojin adds, softly.

—

Jisung calls in sick when his alarm comes to life on Monday morning. His boss is kind enough to grant him the day off, telling him to take care of himself in her usual bright voice. Jisung couldn’t be more grateful.

He drops his phone onto the dresser next to his bed once the call ends, and rolls over. His entire body protests the movement, but it’s too late. Sleep cradles him in its arms, and he drifts away soon enough.

When he wakes, it’s to the sound of his phone going off yet again. The lock screen shows him multiple messages, one of which is from Woojin, and the rest from Felix.

He groans, wishing he’d remembered to silence it before he’d gone back to sleep. It’s too late now, so he slowly drags himself out of bed, and walks into the bathroom.

 _I’ll respond later_ , he thinks, as he turns the faucet for his tub. Cold water trickles through his fingers, and he sighs, turning the knob further to the side. He’s rewarded with the gradual warming of the water. He walks back into his room, shaking the water off of his hand as he searches for some clothes.

Jisung settles on a clean set of pajamas (meaning another pair of sweats and ratty t-shirt with a mysterious stain or two), since he isn’t planning on leaving the house until tomorrow.

He’s just barely stepped foot into his bathroom when he hears the familiar sound of the doorbell ringing.

Jisung pauses, waiting to see if whoever’s at the door is going to give up.

A few seconds pass, and the same noise rings throughout his apartment. Jisung grits his teeth, but turns off the faucet, and makes his way to the door.

He’s met with the sight of a very sheepish Woojin and a brightly smiling Felix.

“Fuck,” is the first thing that falls from his lips. Felix frowns as he takes in his appearance, moving from the cut on his face, and down to the bruises on his arms. At least Jisung isn’t shirtless.

“No wonder you called in sick,” Felix mutters, but there’s an anxious edge to it. Behind him, Woojin mouths an apology.

“Yeah. Uh, what are you guys doing here?” Jisung asks, raising a hand to the back of his neck to rub at the skin. _A learned habit_ , he thinks. 

“Lunch!” Felix exclaims. “And I want an explanation,” He adds, frowning as he shoves past him.

“I was just about to shower,” Jisung sighs, turning back to face Woojin. Felix plops himself down onto the couch, waving him off. He’s strangely calm.

“We’ll wait,” He says dismissively, already unboxing the containers. Jisung sighs. He counts to three, and smiles sheepishly at Woojin as he walks in.

Jisung closes the front door, and walks down the hallway.

Felix’s chatter fades into the background.

—

When he returns, they’re both in the middle of eating.

“Here,” Felix says through a mouthful of Chinese food, pushing a box towards him. Jisung sits across the both of them, cross-legged by the living room table.

“You guys really didn’t have to come by,” He says, to which Felix shrugs. “We got off early, and Woojin mentioned that he wanted to see you,” Felix explains.

“Besides, you’re never sick. You have, like, a freakishly perfect immune system,” Felix adds. Jisung sighs, knowing he owes him an explanation.

He has to keep Woojin out of it, that much he knows. 

“I think there’s something you should know,” Jisung says, lowering his food back down onto the table. Felix raises an eyebrow at him, waiting.

“I got into a fight last night,” Jisung starts nervously, wringing his hands together. He’s off to a rough start.

“It was at one of those fight clubs, though. For boxing. I’m part of a fight club,” He clarifies. He’s not sure if this is the right thing to do, but there’s no going back now. Worst comes to worst, Felix has no proof of the clubs existence, nor that Woojin runs it.

Felix lifts a bite of Chinese food to his mouth.

“Oh, right. That,” He says, completely nonchalant. There’s a stray noodle hanging outside of the corner of his mouth.

Jisung stares at him, shocked.

“Did you think I was an idiot?” Felix laughs. “I figured you probably got into a bar fight the first time—you know, when I asked about your nose—but then you called in sick today,” He continues.

Jisung closes his eyes, sighing.

“Seeing you only confirmed what I already thought,” Felix tells him. Next to him, Woojin’s eyes are wide. 

Jisung had no idea Felix was this smart. 

Or maybe he was just ridiculously stupid, and a lot more obvious than he had previously assumed.

“I’ve heard about this kinda stuff before—underground fight clubs. So, it’s not that you weren’t good at hiding it,” Felix continues, slurping up a particularly big bite. Jisung makes a face at the sight.

“I wanted to tell you,” Jisung confesses. When he looks over at Woojin, he realizes that his food is untouched. _Does Felix know? About him?_

Woojin shakes his head ever so slightly.

Jisung’s shoulders slump in relief.

“It’s fine, Ji. I understand why you didn’t,” Felix says, and he leans across the table to pat his shoulder. Jisung tries his hardest not to wince at the contact. Felix settles his empty food container on the table, getting up from the couch. Jisung watches him move, concerned by his reaction.

“Since that’s out of the way now, I’ll see you tomorrow? Or whenever you’re feeling better,” Felix smiles. Jisung manages to get a nod out, watching as Felix waves. He leaves the apartment quietly, leaving Jisung alone. With Woojin.

“I’m sorry. This is my fault,” Woojin admits, breaking the silence. Jisung is taken aback for a second, wondering what he could possibly be talking about. It takes a second to click.

“I wanted to come see you, and Felix insisted on coming. I shouldn’t have said anything to him,” Woojin continues, and his cheeks are tinted red.

“Oh. That’s okay. I’m slightly annoyed that I didn’t hide it better, but I can’t change anything,” Jisung sighs. He lifts himself off of the floor, grabbing his food. Woojin pats the couch next to him, and Jisung gladly takes a seat, lifting his feet up to rest on the table.

Woojin seems more relaxed now, his eyes brighter than earlier.

“I can go, too. That way you can get some rest before tomorrow,” He murmurs, glancing over at him. Jisung shakes his head, maybe a little too quickly, because the corners of Woojin’s mouth tilt upwards.

“Okay. I’ll stay, then,” Woojin says. Jisung smiles, more so to himself than anything, but Woojin notices regardless.

“How are you doing?” Woojin questions, settling into the crook of the couch. Jisung does the same.

“I feel like I got run over. Twice,” Jisung answers. Woojin frowns at that, looking over at him with concern. “Maybe you should call in sick tomorrow, too,” He suggests.

Jisung considers it. He can’t make a habit of not showing up to work each time he loses a match. Then again, he almost never calls in sick.

“I might, if I can’t drag myself out of bed tomorrow,” Jisung sighs. He glances at the take-out container in his hands, already long forgotten. 

Besides him, Woojin reaches for the remote.

“You might as well put your day off to good use.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos n comments are my life force n motivation to keep writing!! please leave one or the other :( its hard to be excited for this fic if i dont get feedback :(


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Woojin’s fingertips press into his cheek. Jisung wonders if this is how it’d feel if Woojin were to kiss him, if he’d cup his cheeks like this. He isn’t sure where the thought comes from.
> 
> “You’re lucky this is just a bruise,” Woojin tells him, and Jisung’s daydream shatters. Woojin pulls back, tugging off his gloves with a _snap_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST OF ALL. everyone look at [this](https://twitter.com/yorobunz/status/1134967774139289602?s=20) rn!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> second of all. trying to stay motivated for this fic is hard but i am trying my best!!!!!!! thank u to the three people reading this i love u
> 
> lastly. this is progressing very slowly i know but i just. [clenches fist] love building up to stuff
> 
> also i forgot to say this earlier (my bad ): i wish id remembered sooner) but there are mentions of blood later in the chapter so if that makes u uncomfortable dont read!! its not super graphic though!!

Jisung wakes with a dull, but persistent, ache thrumming through his body.

When his phone screen flashes brightly in front of him a few seconds later, he realizes two things.

One: He had slept through his alarm.

Two: Woojin texted saying he told Jihyo that Jisung would be out sick today as well.

Jisung can’t help it. He smiles. 

—

Woojin visits him, later that day, when work ends. He’s got that smile—the warm one that makes Jisung shiver—on his face when Jisung opens the door, slightly surprised.

“I figured I’d stop by and annoy you for the second day in a row,” Woojin tells him, hands in his pocket. 

“That’s perfectly fine with me. Come in,” Jisung says, unable to keep the smile off of his face. 

Woojin looks handsome tonight, in his suit and styled hair. Jisung’s always thought he was handsome, but there’s something about him that he can’t quite pin down as he watches Woojin make himself comfortable on the couch.

Jisung hovers, briefly, before disappearing into his kitchen for drinks. When he returns, Woojin motions for him to sit.

Jisung hesitates, and decides to sit next to Woojin, just like yesterday. Their fingertips brush against each other as Jisung settles into his position.

“I didn’t miss too much, did I?” Jisung asks, holding out a soda to Woojin. He shakes his head.

“I have some beer, if you prefer that,” Jisung offers, but Woojin shakes his head again, moving to slide his jacket off of his shoulders. Jisung looks away, blushing. 

“There isn’t much to catch up on, except for paperwork,” Woojin explains. Jisung sighs at the thought, a heavy feeling residing within the walls of his chest. There’s only so many times he can fill out those forms. Woojin must notice his disdain, because he gives him a sympathetic smile.

“Are you really that unhappy, Jisung?” If it had come from anyone else, Jisung would’ve bristled at the question, but Woojin says it with such consideration that it makes a sob build up somewhere within the crevice of his chest.

“I don’t know. I don’t _know_ , hyung,” Jisung answers, and his voice reminds him of the fissures that run alongside an iced surface, cracking slowly but surely.

“I’m good at this job. I come in to work everyday. I do everything correctly, but it’s not enough, you know?” Jisung continues. “It’s not enough,” He repeats, much more quietly this time around.

Woojin hums in response.

“That’s how I used to feel as well. In my case, running the club wasn’t enough, so I got a day job,” Woojin admits, and Jisung is oddly surprised. He figured the day job was more of a necessity than anything, but he hadn’t bothered to ask.

Woojin’s hand moves to cover Jisung’s own.

Jisung relaxes, just the slightest, and allows himself to take comfort in the feeling of Woojin’s hand on his own.

—

Jisung goes back to the club, except he doesn’t have a training session with Changbin tonight. He knows for a fact that there isn’t a match (those are usually on Saturday’s), so he had decided to do something with his pent up restlessness.

The crowd is light tonight, and he spots Hyunjin at the bar as he walks past. Hyunjin gives him a brief smile, turning his attention back to the person sitting on the chair in front of him. Jisung doesn’t recognize the person; he’s gotten a feel for all of their regular customers lately.

Jisung continues walking through the room, making his way to, surprisingly, Chan. He’s wearing a simple black t-shirt and jeans tonight. _Nothing fancy_ , Jisung notices.

“Is this how we’re gonna meet from now on?” Chan laughs. Jisung cracks a smile, wavering underneath the kindness in Chan’s eyes.

“I guess so,” Jisung responds, adjusting the straps of his bag. Chan’s eyes flicker towards it, and he steps to the side knowingly.

“Don’t stay too long,” He tells him, right as Jisung’s hand wraps around the doorknob. He nods his head in acknowledgement, slipping inside. The whole thing isn’t very discreet, but he figures Chan knows what he’s doing.

When he walks into the room, he’s surprised to find Woojin there. His back is towards Jisung, and he’s throwing punches at one of the boxing bags near the back.

“Funny running into you here,” Jisung says, his laugh vibrating through the room. Woojin stills at the sound of his voice, surprise eminent on his face as he turns to face him. Jisung lets his bag fall to the ground, and he walks over to where Woojin’s standing.

“Jisung,” Woojin says. His name is a lifeline, stretching out towards him.

Jisung accepts with a smile.

“You know, I really don’t think you’re supposed to do this alone,” Jisung admits, breaking the silence, and he moves to take a step behind the punching bag. He pokes his head out from behind it, just to meet Woojin’s eyes once again. 

He’s not wearing gloves, but Jisung doesn’t say anything. It’s not his place, after all.

“Besides, I thought you didn’t fight,” He adds, amusement slipping through his voice.

Woojin shrugs, and Jisung tightens his grip on the bag. He starts going at it again, not answering his question. Jisung isn’t sure how long he stands there, letting Woojin throw punches.

For awhile, all he hears is the rhythmic sound of skin and bone meeting leather. It is not until Jisung begins to tire that he pops his head around the bag, chiding, “You’re gonna hurt yourself if you keep it up. I know for a fact you aren’t conditioned to do this without gloves.”

Woojin glances over at him, and steps back, sweat shining across his forehead. Jisung tries not to stare, but it’s terribly distracting.

“You’re right,” He mutters, but his shoulders are tense. Jisung frowns.

“Is everything okay?” Jisung asks, softly. He’s still hovering behind the bag, so he steps out, towards Woojin’s direction.

“Yeah. Just the usual business stuff,” Woojin responds, irritation flashing across his face for a split second. It’s quickly replaced by something much softer. Jisung waits, but Woojin doesn’t explain. He doesn’t press the issue, knowing he can’t force Woojin to open up.

“May I ask what you’re doing here on a Friday night?” Woojin questions, changing the subject. Jisung smiles at him.

“Just trying to put my energy to use,” He admits reluctantly. “Changbin told me to take it easy, but I feel restless.”

Woojin shoots him a disapproving glance.

“Changbin told you to take it easy for a reason, you know,” He says. Jisung flushes under the borderline reprimandation, but doesn’t say anything else in response. “C’mon. Let’s change your bandages while you’re here. I wanna see if everything is healing nicely.”

Woojin motions for Jisung to follow.

“Why do you wanna do it if you guys have a doctor?” Jisung asks, but he’s trailing after him regardless. Woojin looks over his shoulder, shrugging.

“Can’t I be nice?”

Jisung stops in his tracks, holding a hand to his chest. Woojin raises an eyebrow at him, curious.

“I guess chivalry isn’t dead after all,” He sighs, lifting his other hand to his forehead for dramatic purposes. Woojin laughs, sending a prickle down Jisung’s spine. He likes making Woojin laugh. It’s pleasant.

Woojin takes him down the same hall that leads to the locker room, except he wanders farther down. He stops at a door near the end of the hallway, one that Jisung has never been in, and reaches out towards it with his hand.

When he opens the door, he glances at Jisung.

“After you,” He smiles.

Jisung enters, and finds a room parallel to one in a hospital. There’s a bed tucked into the corner, with those uncomfortable sheets that crinkle with the slightest of movements, along with an array of medical supplies throughout the room. Jisung takes a seat, and watches Woojin head towards the cabinets. He reaches for a couple of items—Jisung can’t tell what they are—and grabs a stool. He drags it towards Jisung, taking a seat across from him.

Woojin smiles kindly. 

“When’s the last time you changed them?” He asks, balancing a box of bandages on his knee. Jisung squints, trying to remember. 

“I don’t remember,” He confesses. Woojin sighs, motioning towards his shirt.

Jisung grins, fingertips tugging on the fabric.

“If you wanted me to take my shirt off that badly, you could’ve just asked,” He teases, because he _can_.

Woojin rolls his eyes, but Jisung can see the way his cheeks darken at his words, even under the glaring lighting. He tugs his shirt off, throwing it off to the side. He reaches for the bandage wrapping around his torso, but Woojin’s hand stops him.

“I’ll do it,” He murmurs. Woojin stands back up, gently placing the supplies onto the counter near them. Jisung’s confused up until he watches him wash his hands with soap, before sliding on a pair of gloves.

“Open wounds are the easiest way to get infected. There’s nothing to protect you since you’re exposed,” Woojin explains, fingers prodding at the bandage. He pulls it off slowly, carefully. Jisung breathes in through his nose, clenching his hands together.

Woojin must notice, because he pauses to look up.

“Okay?” He asks, softly, and Jisung nods. 

Woojin places the used bandage on the countertop, before turning back to examine the wound.

“It’s healing nicely,” He mumbles, fingertips tracing the wound carefully. “But it’s gonna scar,” He warns, pulling away to meet Jisung’s eyes.

Jisung stares back, unwavering.

“That’s okay,” He responds. Jisung knows it’s part of boxing; he’s seen the scars that mark other fighters bodies.

Next to him, Woojin grabs a bottle of what Jisung presumes to be antibacterial cream. He dabs at the wound, and Jisung leans over to grab a fresh bandage. He rips open the package, before handing it over to Woojin.

“I could’ve done this myself,” Jisung points out.

“Yeah, but _did_ you?” Woojin laughs, gently pressing it into his skin.

__

Jisung falls silent, eliciting a laugh from Woojin.

__

“It’s okay. I don’t mind doing it,” Woojin admits. 

__

It’s Jisung’s turn to turn red now.

__

Woojin’s fingertips press into his cheek. Jisung wonders fleetingly if this is how it’d feel if Woojin were to kiss him, if he’d cup his cheeks like this. He isn’t sure where the thought comes from.

__

“You’re lucky this is just a bruise,” Woojin tells him, and Jisung’s daydream shatters. Woojin pulls back, tugging off his gloves with a _snap_.

__

Jisung reaches for his shirt, suddenly feeling very, very bare, like a butterfly pinned to a board. He places it back on, only to catch Woojin staring.

__

“What?” Jisung asks. Stupid, he thinks.

__

Woojin shakes his head ever-so-slightly, getting up from his chair. Jisung does the same, trying to keep himself together.

__

Woojin places a hand into the dip of Jisung’s spine, gently pushing him towards the door.

__

“Go home. Get some rest, yeah?” Woojin murmurs, closing the door behind them. Jisung frowns, but he suppresses the urge to protest. He knows Woojin’s right, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

__

“Only if you go home too,” He negotiates, turning to face Woojin.

__

“Will do,” Woojin says in response, smiling. 

__

It’s dazzling. 

__

—

__

Jisung goes back to training with Changbin a couple of weeks later, with Woojin’s (and a doctor’s) approval, of course.

__

He’s developed a routine by now, greeting Chan and making small talk at the door, before making his way down to the makeshift training room. There, he places his bag on the ground, and joins Changbin in their weekly warm-up.

__

Changbin insists that he needs to focus all of his energy onto the exercises, which means staying silent.

__

(Yet, Jisung talks through the warm-up every week regardless, and Changbin never tells him to shut up).

__

—

__

“Jisung. Just wait a few more weeks. Please,” Woojin says, his voice hushed as he glances around their office. He’s hovering over his desk, earning a curious stare from Felix. Jisung shrugs at him, just as oblivious as the latter.

__

“Why do you want me to wait?” Jisung frowns, glancing up to meet his eyes. Woojin looks distressed. Jisung can tell by the way he holds himself, stiff and fists clenched at his side.

__

“Jisung,” He pleads. “It’s not safe.”

__

Jisung’s frown morphs into one of barely-there irritation.

__

“Tell me why, and I won’t,” Jisung insists. Across from them, Felix coughs awkwardly, reminding them of where they are. Jisung huffs at Woojin’s silence, turning back to face his desk. Woojin walks over to his own desk, letting his head fall into his hands.

__

Jisung looks back to meet Felix’s questioning eyes.

__

_I don’t know_ , Jisung mouths. This had come out of nowhere, with no warning.

__

He turns over his shoulder, looking back at Woojin yet again. When Woojin meets his gaze, Jisung shifts in his seat nervously. 

__

Felix raises an eyebrow, looking between the two of them, but he doesn’t say anything. Neither of them do, not until they’re in the elevator later that day.

__

“That was weird,” Felix blurts out as soon as the elevator doors close shut. Jisung sighs, loudly, over the sound of the depressingly upbeat elevator music.

__

“I don’t get it. Why couldn’t he just tell me?” Jisung asks, folding his arms across his chest. His work bag thumps obnoxiously against his side, so he has to shift his stance.

__

“I’m not sure,” Felix says, frowning. Crease lines appear in his forehead, and he looks at Jisung with the faintest trace of concern in his eyes. “But, I still think you should listen to him,” He adds, quickly.

__

Jisung frowns. (He’s been doing that quite frequently lately).

__

“If Woojin doesn’t want you fighting, then maybe it’s for the best. He probably knows what he’s doing,” Felix explains.

__

Jisung glances at Felix.

__

“And how do you know that?”

__

Felix appears to be embarrassed at his question, the tips of his ears turning a bright shade of red.

__

“I don’t know. I just assumed that he fights as well. He didn’t seem surprised when you told us about your night life,” Felix says, shrugging his shoulders.

__

“Well, he doesn’t,” Jisung responds curtly. He’d never asked Woojin if he was okay with Felix knowing, especially after he found out about Jisung. Still, it’s better to take the safe route.

__

“Oh. Well, then I don’t know,” Felix says, right as the elevator doors open with an ironically cheerful _ding_. 

__

Jisung doesn’t know what to say.

_—_

Jisung enters the designated locker room a week later, like he does every time he has a match. He stands facing the mirror, unclasping the link of his Rolex. He places it besides the sink, and reaches for his bag.

__

He pulls out the familiar roll of gauze, and puts it next to his watch. The sight is borderline amusing, to see his two lives collide in such a subtle manner.

__

Next, he shrugs off his suit jacket. Unbuttons his dress shirt. He’s learned that going shirtless is the best option—gives way for more bruising, but less stains to scrubs out of his shirts. Bleach gives him light pink stains with red borders. Better than red, but not quite good enough.

__

Jisung reaches for the gauze once again, nipping at the jagged edge to pull back a portion of it. He hears Changbin’s voice in his head.

__

_See, the trick is to use gauze lightly. Wrap it to protect the lower part of your thumb and your wrist_. 

__

Changbin’s voice bounces around his head more often than not; Jisung’s grown accustomed to his presence these days. 

__

Changbin’s voice isn’t the only one bouncing around in his head.

__

_Just wait a few more weeks_.

__

Jisung had chosen not to wait. He hated the cryptic tone Woojin had adopted not even a few days ago, back in their office, leaving him without much explanation. Jisung also hates being left in the dark, and no amount of pleading had gotten Woojin to explain.

__

So, here he is, prepping for the match. Changbin hadn’t said anything out of the ordinary, just that he doesn’t know much about his opponent, and yeah, Jisung doesn’t like being in the dark, but it’s not Changbin’s fault.

__

A knock startles Jisung out of his thoughts.

__

When he turns, he finds Woojin standing in the doorway.

__

“Are you here to be cryptic again?” Jisung sighs. He drops the gauze onto the bench behind him, refusing to meet Woojin’s eyes. 

__

Woojin doesn’t respond, so Jisung starts gathering his things up. He walks over to one of the lockers, shoving everything inside haphazardly. He slams it shut, clicking the lock into place, and walks back to Woojin.

__

“The match starts soon,” He tells him. Woojin glances at him, almost as if there are a million things he wants to say to Jisung, but none of them manage to kick their way to the surface.

__

Woojin moves to the side silently, and Jisung steps through the doorway.

__

“Please,” Woojin murmurs, his hand grabbing out to stop him. His hand is flat against Jisung’s abdomen, warm and steady.

__

Jisung pushes against it, and continues walking.

__

—

__

There are not many things Han Jisung fears— _really_ fears—but walking out to the ring leaves him shaken to the core.

__

Changbin stands off to the side, as always, except Woojin has joined him tonight. He can see them whispering to each other.

__

Jisung squares his shoulders, but doesn’t approach them. He hovers by the ring, craning his neck in an attempt to spot his opponent.

__

“It’s not too late to back out,” Changbin murmurs, right into his ear. He hadn’t noticed him walking over. 

__

Jisung clenches his fist. Unclenches. Takes a deep breath.

__

“I don’t wanna,” He admits, eliciting a sigh from Changbin. When he turns, he realizes the sigh had come from Woojin. Jisung stares at him, waiting.

__

Nothing.

__

Scowling, Jisung pushes the ropes of the ring upwards, climbing through. Across from him, he can see his opponent doing the same.

__

When they’re both standing in the ring, a sense of dread washes over Jisung. His opponent doesn’t _look_ very different from the others, but there’s something about him, something in the way he holds himself, and in the way his eyes burn right through Jisung.

__

Jisung curls up his hands into fists, trying to shake the feeling. The man narrows his gaze, and his lips twitch into a smile, the kind that leaves Jisung feeling extremely unsettled. 

__

The referee joins them at that moment, putting the whistle to his lips.

__

The last thing Jisung clearly remembers is the crowd roaring, and his opponent lunging at him with a ferocity he has never known before.

__

—

__

When he wakes, it’s in an unfamiliar room.

__

A dull ache bounces within the confines of his skull, pestering him. With it, there’s a terrible sort of dryness in his throat, making it difficult to swallow. Raising himself onto his elbows, Jisung glances around the room, trying to gauge where he is.

__

To his surprise, he finds Woojin nearby, dozing off in one of the chairs. His surroundings are jarring, like he should know where he is, but can’t reach the information within his brain.

__

“Woojin-hyung,” He croaks out. The latter stirs, blinking open his eyes. He jolts when he notices Jisung staring, quickly rising out of his chair.

__

Jisung motions to his lips. Woojin’s eyebrows pinch at the ends, unrealizing, before it finally clicks. He reaches for the pitcher of water on the dresser nearby ( _Idiot. It was there the entire time_ , Jisung thinks to himself), and pours some into a cup.

__

As Woojin hands the cup over to him, Jisung tries to remember what had happened to him. It’s all quite a blur — the sound of the whistle, the crowd cheering, like they do every night, but it had all faded into darkness pretty quickly. Distantly, he remembers a sharp, pounding pain, right before everything went black.

__

Something throbs in his abdomen, and when Jisung looks down, he clamps a hand over his mouth.

__

“Woojin. Woojin. There’s blood. Oh my god, there’s blood,” He panics, and his fingers press into the red spot. When he pulls away, his fingers are coated in it. He wipes them on the sheets, trying to erase any traces. It’s jarring, to see his own blood stain the white sheets. A sob builds in his throat.

__

“You just need to change your bandages, Jisung. Deep breaths,” Woojin murmurs, and he reaches over to touch something by the bed. When a beep resonates through the room, it finally clicks that Jisung’s in the _hospital_.

__

Woojin grabs the water cup out of his hands, and curls his fingers into Jisung’s hair, smoothening it down. It’s reassuring, to be touched in this way.

__

There’s a soft knock on the door, and Woojin calls out a quiet,“Come in!” before glancing back at Jisung. He smiles warmly at him, and Jisung’s heart constricts. The panic in his chest has settled a little, leaving him unsteady but able to breathe.

__

A nurse walks through the door, brown hair swept back into a ponytail, and eyes gentle as she smiles at Jisung.

__

“I’m glad you’re awake. Is everything okay?” She asks, coming over by his bed. Jisung shakes his head, pointing towards the stain on his clothes. ( _Hospital gown_ , he corrects himself, silently).

__

”He just needs his bandages changed, I think,” Woojin adds. She peers down over at him, nodding when she sees the stain. Jisung watches as she makes her way across the room, towards the sink.

__

When she returns, it’s with gloves on and something in her hands.

__

“I need you to stay still, okay? I think you might have torn your stitches,” She tells him, all with a smile. Jisung decides that he likes her.

__

“Thank you, Tzuyu,” Woojin murmurs, so quietly that it had barely skimmed Jisung’s ears. She nods her head in acknowledgment, smiling. Woojin moves then, lifting Jisung’s nightgown up as Tzuyu simultaneously covers him with the hospital blanket, offering him a sliver of privacy. He’s relieved.

__

“It’s gonna hurt a little, but I won’t take long. I promise,” Tzuyu says, and Jisung watches as gloved hands skim across the dressing, slowly tugging it off. He looks up at the ceiling, trying to take his mind off of what she’s about to do.

__

Pain itches uncomfortably against his skin, and Jisung has to stifle a whimper. Besides him, Woojin’s hand shifts. 

__

It takes Jisung a long moment to realize what he’s offering.

__

He accepts Woojin’s hand, squeezing a bit too tightly. Woojin doesn’t say anything, just brushes his hair out of his eyes and smiles at him.

__

“Stop that,” Jisung croaks. The pain disappears, and he looks at the nurse with wide eyes.

__

“Not you! Not you. I meant Woojin. Sorry,” He explains, letting his head fall back against the pillow. 

__

“Stop looking at me like that,” Jisung adds, tilting his head towards Woojin. He can feel his cheeks burning from the attention. In front of him, Tzuyu’s biting back a smile. She finishes redoing his stitches a few minutes later, looking back up at him with a smile.

__

“Try not to move too much, or you’ll end up ripping them again, alright?”

__

Jisung nods, and she glances over at Woojin.

__

_They know each other_ , Jisung thinks. There’s a sense of familiarity between the two.

__

She leaves quietly after that, leaving him alone with Woojin alone.

__

Jisung looks at Woojin, at his disheveled hair and unkempt suit. He notices the too dark and too deep sleep circles under his eyes, much too protruding to have gone simply a few nights without sleeping.

__

“What happened?” Jisung finally asks, the question rising out of him in the form of a wave. It washes over Woojin, drenches him, until he responds.

__

“Your opponent snuck in a knife,” Woojin says, slowly and carefully. Jisung’s head presses into the pillow a little deeper, like he’s trying to physically wrap his mind around what Woojin said.

__

“Weapons aren’t allowed, but he managed to slip one in. It was probably through one of the spectators,” Woojin continues. He frowns, and Jisung watches him get lost in thought.

__

Jisung waves a hand in front of his face, trying to ground him back to the real world. The one where Han Jisung had gotten stabbed for some obscure reason he can’t pinpoint.

__

Realization is something awful. 

__

Jisung can feel it creeping up inside of him, whispering to him. He tries to choke it down—subdue it—but it creeps up to the surface in the form of two dangerous words.

__

“You knew.”

__

Woojin takes in a deep breath.

__

“No. I didn’t,” Woojin answers, pinching the bridge of his nose out of frustration. Jisung wants to look away, but he can’t force himself to move. He feels frozen.

__

“Then why did you want me to call off the fight? You knew something was gonna happen,” Jisung shoots back, unwavering and steady. 

__

Woojin falters under the look Jisung gives him.

__

“I didn’t know about the knife. Believe me when I say that,” Woojin responds, and his voice is hushed as he glances over at the door, almost as if someone could walk in any minute.

__

“How can I? You aren’t telling me anything,” Jisung snaps. He feels silly, arguing with Woojin while he’s lying down. He turns his head to the side, looking for the bed’s remote control. Woojin notices him fumbling, so he grabs it off of the dresser, pressing the buttons for him.

__

“I don’t need your help,” Jisung says, almost a little too forcefully. Woojin doesn’t flinch, just sets the remote down next to Jisung, and walks back to his chair. He drags it over by Jisung’s bed, taking a seat.

__

Jisung shifts underneath the blanket, raising himself against the bed. He keeps his eyes fixed on the wall in front of him, and not at Woojin.

__

“Go home.” His words are clipped, teetering the line between short and out-right curt. Woojin doesn’t budge, and frustration starts bubbling up inside of Jisung.

__

Woojin must’ve known something. It cannot just be an astronomical coincidence that he happened to get injured in the very match Woojin warned him about.

__

Besides, Jisung doesn’t believe in coincidences. Not really. 

__

“You know how we screen everyone before we let them fight?” Woojin asks. Jisung can see him staring at out of the corner of his eye, and his resolve wavers. He meets Woojin’s gaze.

__

“Like, medical tests?” He isn’t sure what this has to do with anything.

__

Woojin shakes his head.

__

“I thought Changbin told you,” He frowns. Jisung grits his teeth, but he bites his tongue before something spiteful tumbles out of it, spilling over like a waterfall. That is the best way to describe Jisung—a waterfall, uncertain and raging over the edge of a cliff.

__

For once in his life, Jisung waits. He holds himself back, for Woojin’s sake.

__

“We do background checks. We don’t let just anyone fight. Changbin should’ve told you about it, but it might’ve slipped his mind,” Woojin admits. Jisung doesn’t say anything in response, waiting.

__

“My point is that I try to make sure our fighters are decent people. I don’t wanna be involved with criminals, not like the other clubs,” Woojin explains.

__

“I don’t see what this has to do with anything,” Jisung responds, eyelids fluttering shut. Woojin falls silent, so he cracks an eye back open, waiting.

__

“A few weeks ago, these guys came in looking to become fighters. They seemed pretty decent,” Woojin continues. He’s fiddling with his hands now, looking down at the ground.

__

Jisung does what he does best. He waits for Woojin to go on.

__

“But they refused to let me run background checks. The names they gave me didn’t pan out, so I asked Chan to look into it for me. Turns out they’re part of a local gang, or something. I’ve never heard of them up until now.”

__

Jisung’s breath hitches in his throat. It is getting harder to stay silent.

__

Woojin meets his eyes, and the dam inside of Jisung bursts.

__

“You knew they were dangerous, and you didn’t tell me,” Jisung whispers. He watches his words sink in, curl the corners of Woojin’s mouth down and pull out the gleam in his eyes.

__

“Jisung. I tried to tell you,” Woojin protests, reaching for his hand. Jisung yanks it away, trembling.

__

“You didn’t! You didn’t try to explain anything,” Jisung retorts. Tears well up in his eyes, and he frantically tries to blink them away. 

__

“I didn’t explain anything because I wanted to protect you, Jisung. Not many people _know_ about this side of my life, and there’s a reason _why_ ,” Woojin says. “All I wanted was for you to trust me.”

__

Jisung shrinks at that, unsure of how to respond. Trust does not come easy for him. It does not come easy for anyone.

__

“I trusted you to not tell anyone about me. Why couldn’t you have trusted me, just this once?” Woojin asks, exhaustion dripping with every word that falls from his mouth. Jisung doesn’t budge.

__

“I was gonna cancel the fight, but Chan kept saying it was okay, that he had it covered. He said it would cause too much suspicion if I canceled it, and I agreed,” Woojin explains. He’s rubbing the palms of his hands together now, looking up at him anxiously.

__

“I thought it’d only end up hurting you. That they’d figure out I told you about them.”

__

“You should’ve,” Jisung says, quietly.

__

“Jisung. You don’t understand these people. They go after _everyone_ , not just me. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. They’re powerful in ways that I am not,” Woojin says, voice verging along the lines of desperate. 

__

Jisung pulls the hospital blanket up and around him, trying to hide. There’s too much going on for him to focus on anything.

__

“I wanted you to back out because it would’ve been of your own will, not mine. If I had said something, they would’ve figured it out.” His voice is hesitant, almost as if he’s tip-toeing around what he actually wants to say.

__

“Figured what out?” Jisung demands. He doesn’t like elusivity, not under these circumstances.

__

Woojin stares at him curiously. The look is gone within seconds, and he keeps his gaze steady with Jisung’s own as he admits, “They would’ve figured out that I care about you.”

__

Jisung doesn’t say anything. Woojin has never said something like this before. Not to him. 

__

“Caring about people isn’t dangerous, Jisung, but it is when it comes to them,” He continues, his fingers tapping against the arm of the chair nervously.

__

Jisung sucks in a sharp breath, mind reeling. There are so many things he hasn’t said, so many things he wants to say, but his brain-to-mouth filter is malfunctioning.

__

Woojin doesn’t say anything further, leaning back in his seat as he lets Jisung process everything.

__

Jisung tries to put himself in Woojin’s position. 

__

It’s, of course, useless. He doesn’t know what he’d do, not when he’s never been forced to make a decision with so much gravity and weight behind it. 

__

Still, there’s one thing he doesn’t understand.

__

“You knew one of them was fighting that night,” Jisung says.

__

Woojin doesn’t crumble at the accusation. _At least he has some resolve_ , Jisung thinks. 

__

“I did,” He confirms. Jisung shifts from his bed, raising himself so he’s fully sitting.

__

“But I couldn’t tell you. Do you understand that? They would’ve done something worse to you,” Woojin adds, quickly. Jisung falters, narrowing his eyes at him.

__

“And how do you know that?” He demands.

__

“Because they threatened me. They said they’d figure out who was close to me, and that they’d go to the cops if I didn’t let them fight,” Woojin blurts out, and his gaze is awfully fierce, shining with an emotion Jisung cannot decipher.

__

“I try my best to keep criminals out of the club. I can’t do much about the audience or crowd, because they’re the ones funding it, but I’m more strict with fighters,” He continues, fiddling with his fingers. Jisung watches him twist the silver ring on his hand, tugging and pulling at it.

__

“You’re right, though. I should’ve canceled it. Sent bodyguards after you, and the other people in my life. Chan kept saying it was okay,” Woojin sighs. Jisung swallows uneasily. Woojin clearly only had so many options, but it still stings.

__

“I thought you were safe. I never thought they’d bring in a weapon.”

__

Jisung doesn’t realize that Woojin is crying until he hears him choke back a sob. It’s awfully ragged, the way the tears force their way out of his eyes. He would have never taken him for a crier.

__

Jisung realizes in that moment that he doesn’t like seeing Woojin cry.

__

“Okay,” Jisung finally says, a surge of finality rushing through him. Woojin looks back up, wiping hurriedly at his eyes. 

__

“Okay. I understand why you did what you did,” Jisung admits. _The truth is heavy_ , he thinks. It’s pressing against him, weighing him down.

__

Woojin hasn’t said anything, almost as if he’s waiting for Jisung to take it back.

__

“That still doesn’t mean I forgive you,” Jisung whispers, and Woojin’s shoulders deflate. He tips his head back against the chair, a small sigh falling from his lips. His eyes are closed shut.

__

“It doesn’t,” Woojin finally agrees, blinking his eyes open. Jisung can’t drop his gaze, no matter how much he may want to. He doesn’t know how long they stare at each other before Woojin breaks the silence, leaning forward in his chair.

__

“I just wanted to keep you safe,” He says, and his hand reaches out, towards Jisung.

__

Jisung glances at it, hesitant after everything.

__

“No more secrets,” Jisung whispers, voice trembling. Woojin’s fingers curl over his own.

__

“No more secrets,” Woojin agrees, and Jisung reluctantly lets him clasp their hands together.

__


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is not long before Jisung is pushing his way through the crowd and towards Woojin, like a planet gravitating around a star. Woojin is Jisung’s star, continuously drawing him in.
> 
> Jisung stops in front of him, unsure of where to begin. Woojin beats him to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think the next chapter might take a little longer but anyways!! :) this update is a lot longer than the last one n i was thinking about splitting it up but i decided against it because it felt Important to put it all together 
> 
> i say this every time but. i love every single person reading this despite the slow build n rare pairing 
> 
> please leave kudos (if u havent already) n comments if u wish theyre my life force!!!! 
> 
> also. changed the rating because of some kissing but nothing more than that happens!! just so u guys know <3

Changbin picks him up from the hospital the next day.

Jisung had half-expected the police to come in at one point and question him—knife wounds always warrant an investigation—but Woojin had looked at him with a gleam in his eyes, explaining that he and Tzuyu had some sort of a deal. She treats his fighters under the books, and, in turn, he gives her a portion of his profits to help her pay off student loans from medical school.

Which means that Jisung was right. They know each other. He doesn’t think much of it, just lets their fingertips brush as Woojin passes him along to Changbin with a smile.

“Make sure he stays in bed, yeah? No moving unless absolutely necessary,” Woojin instructs, to which Changbin nods solemnly. Woojin moves yet again, holding the car door open for Jisung.

“I better not see you around,” Woojin warns, to which Jisung laughs dryly. A dull throb resonates through his abdomen from the strain, and one of his hands clutches at the wound. He tries to mask the discomfort on his face, but it is too late.

Nothing gets past Woojin. Or Changbin, for that matter. They both hover over him, pestering and fretting until Jisung sits in the car, motioning at them to back off.

“I’m tired. And sleepy,” He mutters through a stifled yawn, his eyelids drooping. Distantly, he can hear Woojin speaking, He’s too exhausted to tune in, so he reaches for the door handle, closing the door shut.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before Changbin’s sitting in the driver’s seat, his voice booming through the car. Jisung winces, bringing a hand to his forehead.

“Inside voice, please,” He reminds him. Changbin snickers, but stops talking for the duration of the car ride. He drops Jisung off at his apartment with a dangerously tight hug, and a bowl of lukewarm soup he’d cooked earlier.

(Jisung learns that Changbin can’t cook for shit when he spits it out half an hour later, but the gesture still makes him feel warm inside).

—

Woojin stops by in the late afternoon, a few days after Jisung was discharged from the hospital.

“I owe you a real apology,” Woojin blurts out, right as Jisung swings the door open. Jisung squints from the sudden obtrusion of light, trying to hold back his laughter.

“Whoa. At least say hi first,” He jokes, shuffling to the side. _Classic_ , he thinks. _Hiding behind humor_. He gestures for Woojin to enter. Woojin steps through the door, carrying a bag with him that Jisung had not noticed at first.

Jisung closes the door silently, and makes his way back to where he had been laying on the couch.

“Appendicitis, huh?” Woojin asks, and Jisung shrugs at the question. He’d told Jihyo as soon as he got out of the hospital, that way no one would try to visit him and realize he’d lied about what actually happened.

“Believable, isn’t it? The knife wound is low enough to pass for it,” Jisung responds, leaning down onto the cushions with a sigh. Woojin nods, rummaging through his bag. He holds up a small bottle, waving it in front of Jisung’s eyes.

“Felix said you had some pain from the injury, so I bought painkillers. Nothing too strong, of course,” Woojin explains, setting the bottle down onto the table. Jisung breathes out sigh of thanks, but doesn’t move for the medicine.

“How are your stitches, by the way?” Woojin questions, and he shifts so he’s facing Jisung.

Jisung leans back fully, head propped on the arm rest, and his fingers push his shirt upwards.

“You know, you’ve seen me shirtless a _lot_ for someone who’s only taken me out on one date,” Jisung points out, looking down at the bandage covering his stitches. He wonders what the scar will look like, once everything heals properly.

Woojin raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t say anything else.

Jisung blushes, and pushes his shirt back down, suddenly feeling slightly embarrassed by his lack of filter.

“Hang on,” Woojin murmurs, moving closer. He eases Jisung’s shirt upwards, so that only his wound is showing, and prods at the bandage. He peels back a portion of it, eyebrows pinching together as he examines it. Jisung holds his breath, afraid to breathe when Woojin is so close.

“Good news,” Woojin sighs. “It seems to be healing nicely,” He continues, patting at the bandage so it sticks back down. Jisung should take it off soon. Tzuyu had said something about taking it off once a certain amount of time passed, but he was too frazzled to actually absorb the information.

Jisung tries to smile as he sits back up, glancing over at Woojin nervously. He still has yet to apologize, and it’s unnerving him.

Woojin stares right back, eyes searching Jisung’s gaze. For what, he isn’t sure.

“You’re waiting,” Woojin observes. Jisung nods reluctantly, watching as Woojin’s eyes fall to the ground.

“I don’t know what to say. I’m not good at this, you know? Nothing like this has ever happened before. Not in a while, at least,” Woojin says, so quiet that Jisung has to strain to hear him properly.

Jisung swallows dryly, but doesn’t interrupt. There’s no use.

Woojin takes in a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, Jisung. I had no right to keep you in the dark. You deserved to know. There’s no good excuse,” Woojin says. It sounds less raw than Jisung had been expecting, and more choked out, like Woojin isn’t used to these words coming out of his mouth.

Jisung pauses, waiting to see if there’s more.

“I don’t know what else to say,” Woojin adds. 

Jisung hadn’t expected much from Woojin. He doesn’t seem like the type to bend against his will, to genuinely apologize for his mistakes, but Jisung also isn’t good at reading people. He thinks too quickly, makes judgements faster than he should.

In all of his glory, Han Jisung is quite the whirlwind of thoughts and actions and judgements, crashing into every obstacle imaginable along the path he’s following.

He’s in no place to hold grudges, not when he has made his fair share of mistakes. 

There’s a long, terrible silence. Woojin doesn’t push him to answer, just sits across from him, and waits. _He’s patient_ , Jisung thinks to himself. It’s yet another quality that he hadn’t expected Woojin to have.

Jisung lets his shoulders deflate, exhaling any tension out of his body.

“You couldn’t have known what would happen. You had to let them fight, right? Otherwise, something worse would’ve happened,” Jisung says. 

Woojin nods.

“I just wanted to help,” He admits, fumbling with his fingers nervously. Jisung can’t stop staring. Woojin never looks nervous. He’s always so put together, but not right now. Not in front of Jisung.

“I forgive you,” Jisung finally says. He lays the words out there, in the open, for Woojin to accept. 

Besides him, Woojin exhales. He’s stopped wringing his hands together, and sits still instead.

“Jisung,” He murmurs. Jisung’s heart aches at the sound of his name. 

“I could’ve lost you. Felix could’ve lost you. Your _family_ could’ve lost you,” Woojin continues, and when he looks up at Jisung, there are tears shining in his eyes.

Jisung holds out his hand, waiting. It’s strikingly parallel to when Woojin held out his hand in the hospital.

Woojin accepts it, gives in to the comfort and forgiveness Jisung is offering. 

_Forgiveness goes two ways_ , Jisung thinks. It cannot simply be given. It must be accepted.

—

Jisung ends up on the elevator with Jihyo on his first day back. She gives him a warm smile as the elevator doors close, and says, “It’s good to have you back.”

Jisung shifts uneasily on his feet, bobbing his head.

“It’s good to be back.” The lie is heavy on his tongue, pressing down like it’s a damp swath of cotton. He tries to ignore it. 

The elevator dings as the doors slide open, and Jisung walks into the space he has learned to hate.

—

Jisung has never felt so restless in his life. The doctor he’d seen at the club warned him to stay away from any sort of strenuous activity, even after he got his stitches removed.

He knows it’s for the best, but his body thrums with an itch he can’t reach, tired of not being put to use. Yet, each time he thinks about stepping back into the ring, anxiety eats away at him. Woojin said he’d doubled up on security, as well as pat-downs, after everything happened. Chan, on the other hand, swore to handle the problem. Jisung isn’t sure what he meant by handle, but he decided not to question it. 

This isn’t his life. He fights, but he doesn’t _know_ this life. Not the way someone like Chan, or Woojin, does.

 _People aren’t happy about the upgraded security measures, but they’d also do anything to see some action. If some of them choose to go elsewhere, then that’s fine_.

Jisung’s okay with that.

—

Jisung remembers what happened that night. 

It was fuzzy at first, but as time passes, the memories come to him slowly, like when someone bumps into him on the street on his way to work, and he shrinks away, waiting for a pain that never comes—the same kind he had felt that very night.

It takes three blocks for his breathing to slow down, and another two to realize that he had been waiting for that person to harm him, just like in his last match.

Jisung doesn’t stop shaking until he’s typed out four separate insurance forms, and Felix slides him a granola bar across their desks.

“Rough day?” He asks, to which Jisung nods. There’s no point in lying, not to Felix.

Felix doesn’t say anything else, just smiles warmly and turns his attention back to the computer. Jisung’s grateful.

—

Later that week, Jisung stands at the crosslight. He’s been out of it, constantly looking over his shoulder at the slightest of movements. 

He’s waiting for the light to change when someone bumps into him, sending his brain into overdrive. Jisung spins, curling his fingers up into a fist, the same way he would in a fight.

About half a second passes before the scene in front of him is processed by his brain, and Jisung’s met with the sight of Woojin, whose hand shoots out to grab his, fingers curling over his clenched fist. Neither of them say anything for a couple of seconds, and Jisung can see the strange glances they’re getting from those around them.

“Jisung,” He sighs, and Jisung lowers his arm back down. Woojin’s hand moves with it, warm and steady. _Just like Woojin_ , Jisung thinks. He pushes the thought away. 

“Sorry,” Jisung apologizes, staring down at where Woojin’s hand encases his own. It’s an unfamiliar sight.

“Are you okay?” Woojin questions, and there is concern creasing the crook of his face. Jisung bites his lip, shaking off Woojin’s hand. Jisung takes a step back, opting to put some space between them.

“I’m fine. Just got a little scared,” He mutters, glancing over his shoulder. The crosslight flashes brightly in front of them, and Jisung starts moving.

Woojin, as always, follows.

It takes a block and a half for Woojin to speak.

“Do you remember it?” He asks.

Jisung can’t meet his eyes, so he stares straight ahead. He watches a gray cat dart out of an alleyway, and an older woman starting to pack up the boxes of fruit outside of her storefront, balancing them in her hands. Jisung stops in his tracks to ask if she needs help. She looks curiously between the two, shaking her head as she smiles.

They continue walking together, and Woojin doesn’t repeat himself, letting Jisung take his time.

“I remember it,” Jisung finally answers. The wind has started to pick up—just like it usually does in the evenings—and Jisung can feel it nipping at his skin. He shivers involuntarily, pressing his arms closer to his side for warmth.

“We have a therapist if you need it,” Woojin says, quietly. It’s an offer.

Jisung breathes in deeply. Exhales. Then repeats, and meets Woojin’s eyes.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” He responds, smoothly. If he says it enough times, maybe he’ll start to believe it.

That doesn’t mean Woojin will, judging by the look on his face.

“Okay,” He finally says. Jisung’s glad he decided not to press the issue.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Goodnight, Jisung,” Woojin continues. They’re at another crosswalk, except Woojin is going left this time, and Jisung’s still going straight.

“Goodnight,” Jisung says, softly.

Something itches at him, but he brushes it away, too tired to make any sense of it.

And so, it is not until he’s slipping off his shoes at his front door that he realizes Woojin called him by his name. Jisung, and not _newbie_.

The realization makes his chest tighten.

—

Changbin, too, makes his rounds at Jisung’s apartment.

He shows up one night after Jisung gets off of work, takeout in one hand and a pack of beer in the other. It is strange, to see him dressed in normal clothing for once. Jisung can’t remember if he’s ever seen Changbin outside of their training sessions. Still, it’s a nice change.

“Figured you could break your healthy boxer diet just this once,” Changbin shrugs. Jisung laughs, sidestepping to let him enter.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Jisung mutters, shutting the door closed. Behind him, Changbin’s searching for the kitchen, hovering in the doorway leading to it.

“We can eat on the couch, as long as you don’t make a mess. Felix is the only one banned from eating in the living room,” Jisung explains. It’s not like he listens. Changbin raises an eyebrow, seating himself onto the couch. Jisung joins him.

“Felix? Is he a work friend?” Changbin asks, leaning forward to open one of the containers. He’s got an unreadable expression on his face.

“My closest work friend,” Jisung admits. “He always makes a mess when he comes over,” He adds as an explanation, and he accepts the fork Changbin hands him with gratitude.

He grabs one of the containers, sticking his fork inside without a second thought.

“I wasn’t sure what kind of food you like,” Changbin starts, but when he glances over, Jisung’s already shoved multiple bites into his mouth.

“Never mind. I’m assuming you aren’t a picky eater,” Changbin laughs, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards when Jisung nods his head in agreement.

They eat in silence, and for a while, it’s just the scraping of forks and chewing echoing through the living room. 

Changbin is the first to finish, setting his takeout container down with a quiet sigh. Jisung knows what’s coming, even before he speaks.

“How are you?” He asks, leaning back in his spot so they’re making eye contact. Jisung swallows his last bite of food, shrugging.

“I got my stitches removed,” Jisung answers, patting his abdomen gently. The tissue from the wound is a scarred pink now, which, according to the doctor he saw, should go away with time. The color, not the scarring. Scar tissue cannot heal, but Jisung knew that already.

“That’s not what I meant,” Changbin says quietly, dipping his head down. Jisung scoots forward, balancing on the edge of the couch.

“I know,” He responds, scooping Changbin’s leftover trash into his hand. He stands, busying himself with the few pieces of garbage scattered across the table. 

“Jisung,” Changbin calls, but he’s walking towards the kitchen already. He can’t afford to leave such a mess laying around.

He doesn’t realize Changbin’s following him until it’s too late, and he turns to find him standing right _there_.

Jisung bites back a sigh, along with words he knows he’ll come to regret.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” He says, lowering his gaze to the cracked tiles of his kitchen. Dust is scattered along them. He really should clean soon.

Across from him, Changbin purses his lips.

“I won’t force you to,” He admits. “That doesn’t mean you should shut everyone out, though. That’ll just make things worse.”

Jisung glares at the dust settling in the cracks of his floor.

“I said I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Changbin takes a step back.

“Okay, Jisung. That’s okay,” He says, quietly, so quietly that guilt trickles down Jisung’s throat. It has a bitter taste, the kind that doesn’t leave no matter how many times he tries to swallow it back down.

“I should get going,” Changbin adds, and he’s looking at Jisung again, almost as if he’s waiting for something.

Jisung nods.

“You’re welcome to stay.” The lie claws up through his throat, unforgiving.

Changbin pauses. He opens his mouth, hesitant, and Jisung waits.

“Something similar happened to me once.” Jisung’s breath catches in his throat, but he tries not to let it show.

“We’re more alike than you think, Jisung. I can’t force you to open up, but trust me when I say that I understand what it’s like,” Changbin says, almost as if he’s weighing every word before letting it fall from his lips.

“Lashing out at people. Shutting them out. I did the same thing,” Changbin admits.

Jisung tries to soften the harshness of his glare. 

“How did it happen to you?” He asks, lowly. Changbin sighs, walking over to Jisung’s rickety kitchen table. He sits down, motioning for Jisung to do the same.

“I started fighting a lot earlier than you, right around when Woojin took over,” Changbin explains, and Jisung is startled. He’d never asked Woojin how old he was when his parents left the business to him, but he must’ve been young, if Changbin’s really been fighting for that long. Jisung wonders why his parents had given him so much responsibility at that age.

“Things were pretty hectic around that time,” Changbin admits, absentmindedly picking at the skin around his fingernail. Jisung doesn’t say anything. He hasn’t learned much about Changbin’s background—he didn’t want to pry by asking him or Woojin, who certainly had to know more than he let on.

Still, it never bothered Jisung. Everyone carries secrets, and not all of them are theirs to share.

“Woojin was still trying to get everything running smoothly. His parents didn’t have security, or anything like that, so I guess that’s how they managed to get a weapon inside,” Changbin continues, his voice faltering. There’s a heavy silence hanging between the both of them now.

Jisung lowers his head, unsure of what to say or do. Changbin sits across from him quietly, fingers curling up into fists.

“It was one of my earlier matches too. I wasn’t that good,” Changbin says, and his voice is folding in on itself, growing smaller with every word. Jisung can’t even begin to _imagine_ Changbin as anything that isn’t good. He’s got this sort of natural talent, the kind Jisung can’t help but envy.

“Anyways, this guy also snuck in a knife. He got me right between the ribs, and almost punctured my lung.”

Jisung breathes in shakily. He’s never seen Changbin as someone who could ever get injured, not to that extent.

“Woojin was the one who drove me to the hospital that night. He handed me over to one of his friends, trying to keep it a secret. Said that if she didn’t save me he’d punish himself for what happened,” Changbin explains. Jisung’s finally gathered the courage to look him in the eyes. 

He practically reels when he notices the tears building up in them. The Changbin he knows doesn’t cry, but he doesn’t really know him. He knows his coach, his _trainer_ , the person whose voice tumbles through is head in a match, guiding him. 

“He never specified what he’d do, but she agreed. After that, Woojin hired a medical team. A therapist, as well as security. He got me back into the ring,” Changbin tells him, more confident and steady than ever. Jisung relaxes; _this_ is the Changbin he has come to know over the course of time.

“What I’m saying, Jisung, is that it happens to the best of us. There’s nothing wrong with it. I couldn’t even walk back into the training room for a month. It scared me,” Changbin admits.

Jisung thinks about the past week, how jumpy and anxiety-ridden he’s been. _Familiarity_. Jisung clings onto the lifesaver Changbin’s thrown to him, desperate. He should’ve listened to him sooner.

“I’m scared, Changbin,” Jisung confesses, the words tumbling out onto the kitchen table before he can stop them. 

Changbin smiles at him through watery eyes.

“That’s good, Jisung. Fear makes us human, separates us from the people who do things like _this_ ,” Changbin gestures to the spot where he presumably carries that scar, and then at Jisung’s shirt, where his own lays, pressing into him like a constant reminder.

“You’re right,” He says, quietly.

“I always am,” Changbin responds, and he’s back to his usual self, the corner of his mouth curling upwards. Jisung likes this Changbin—carefree, open.

—

A month after he got injured, Jisung goes back.

There’s a match scheduled for tonight, which means Woojin will be present, watching. Jisung hasn’t spoken to him much lately, choosing to immerse himself in work instead. Part of him knows it’s just his way of trying to fill up a bottomless void, but he doesn’t have anything better to do.

He walks in with hunched shoulders and a neutral gaze, hoping he hasn’t made a name for himself quite yet. He gets a few glances here and there, but no one outright says anything. There’s too much anticipation buzzing for the match since they’re new fighters, which is relieving.

Jisung steers clear of the ring and the ropes that bind it together, opting to flit towards the wall instead. From there, he scans the crowd, looking for Woojin.

It doesn’t take long to find him. He’s the kind of person that always stands out, no matter their appearance. 

Jisung drinks in the sight of Woojin and his silky shirt, unbuttoned just enough for Jisung’s cheeks to flush, almost matching the deep red of his shirt. A necklace sits between his collarbones, gold and shining underneath the lighting. Out of the corner of his eye, Jisung watches him move his hand, a matching gold watch gleaming on it, and Jisung is suddenly reminded of his job.

He shakes his head, trying to pull himself out of his thoughts. He’s here for something else. 

This time, when he glances at Woojin, he notices him staring.

It is not long before Jisung is pushing his way through the crowd and towards Woojin, like a planet gravitating around a star. Woojin is Jisung’s star, continuously drawing him in.

Jisung stops in front of him, unsure of where to begin. Woojin beats him to it.

“Long time no see,” He says, over the din of the crowd. Jisung watches him fix his shirt, tucking a loose end back into his pants. He raises his gaze, embarrassed by his wandering eyes.

Jisung’s response is interrupted by an uproar, and he glances over his shoulder. Tonight’s match is starting.

Whatever Woojin says next is lost in the crowd, but Jisung wasn’t paying attention either way, distracted by the figure stepping inside of the ring. He turns around completely, eyes calculating.

 _Felix_ , he thinks. 

Jisung shoves his way through the crowd, Woojin forgotten. There’s no way. Perhaps it’s a side effect of what he went through, some sort of hallucination. Or maybe this is all a dream, and Jisung’s going to wake up gasping for breath and a layer of sweat dotting his forehead.

It’s not. He can spot the sloping of Felix’s nose, the freckles scattered across his cheeks. Jisung stumbles to a stop in front of the ring, his eyes accusing as he tries to meet Felix’s gaze.

No such luck.

Behind him, Woojin places a hand on his shoulder. Jisung jerks at the contact, turning so they’re facing each other again.

“Is that him? Is that Felix?” He demands, and he spins back on his heels, trying to get a better look. There’s no way it isn’t Felix. 

Behind him, he can feel Woojin shifting closer. His chest presses against Jisung’s back, lightly, and his lips brush the outer edge of Jisung’s ear. The silk feels soft against Jisung, even through his own shirt.

“Jisung, you do realize that I wasn’t allowed to tell you, right? Not before his first match,” Woojin murmurs. 

“Confidentiality is what makes this _work_. I can’t just go around telling people who my fighters are before they have their first match. Besides, he’s new,” Woojin explains, and Jisung relaxes against him. _My fighters_ , Jisung thinks. He falls into that category.

He’d almost forgotten the burdens of Woojin’s job. He thinks about Changbin sitting at his kitchen table, telling him about how much Woojin struggled to keep things running when he first inherited the business. It’s not his fault.

“That makes sense,” Jisung admits. From the ring, Felix meets his eyes. They’re quite fierce, and Jisung realizes that there is so much he has yet to uncover about Felix.

“Why are you here, Jisung?” Woojin asks, changing the subject. 

Jisung raises his shoulders in a feeble attempt to shrug. 

“Baby steps. I had to come back eventually,” Jisung admits, leaning into Woojin’s touch. He’s simply a planet spinning in Woojin’s galaxy, around a star he has grown familiar with.

“Welcome back, newbie,” Woojin responds, softly. Jisung allows himself to smile at that.

His smile falters when he hears the all-too familiar sound of a whistle being blown, and he pulls back from Woojin to focus on the match instead.

Matches don’t run for that long, not like they do in regular boxing matches. Still, Jisung cannot stifle the worry creeping up inside of him.

“Felix is good, Jisung-ah. I’ve heard a lot about him from other fighters,” Woojin tells him, as calm and reassuring as always. Jisung doesn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected this from Felix, but it explains everything. It explains Felix thinking Woojin was a fighter without ever being told. It explains him figuring Jisung’s secret out so easily, and the way he had been so eerily calm about it.

Jisung sighs. Felix had _known_.

He focuses his attention back to the match, watching the way Felix moves faster than he had ever thought possible. He doesn’t seem to throw a lot of punches, but the few he does are clearly painful, even from where Jisung’s standing.

His gaze flickers over to the outside of the ring, and he spots Minho on Felix’s side of the ring.

“Oh. Wow. Minho trains him?” Jisung whispers. He can hear a laugh rattle through Woojin’s chest.

“Yeah. Minho trains him. He put up a bit of a fight before Felix got him to agree. Sort of like you with Changbin,” Woojins says. Jisung isn’t surprised. Minho doesn’t seem to be the placating type, and Felix is nothing if not stubborn.

His gaze moves around the room, landing on a woman standing near the other opponents side of the ring. He doesn’t know his name—he’d missed it while he was talking to Woojin—but the trainer standing looks terribly familiar to him.

“That’s Kim Dahyun. She trained Jeongin,” Woojin murmurs, almost as if he could read Jisung’s thoughts. Across the room, her eyes meet Jisung’s, and he’s quick to drop his gaze. 

_Jeongin_ , he thinks. That’s a new name, but a familiar face. Jisung is confident that he’s seen that same person sitting at the bar by Hyunjin more than a few times. He shouldn’t be surprised that all of their lives are so closely connected, not after seeing Felix.

“Jeongin’s relatively new too. He’s been under us longer, though. It took a lot to get him in the ring,” Woojin explains, and Jisung frowns, wondering if he should be indulging this information. Woojin’s face comes around to look at Jisung’s, laughing lightly.

“I can’t tell you their names if you ask for them, and not if they haven’t started fighting yet. Besides, the names are announced every match if both fighters consent,” Woojin explains. Jisung doesn’t get it, but he drops the subject.

When he glances back at the ring, the crowd is cheering, and Felix stands over Jeongin with a small smile on his face. When Felix meets his eyes, he waves.

—

Later, Jisung worms his way to the changing room. There, he finds Felix by one of the lockers, unwrapping his wrist.

Felix looks up when he walks inside, his expression morphing into a smile.

“Jisung!” He greets, like they’re back in the office, clocking in together. Except they’re not. 

Woojin pops out from behind him, a medical kit dangling from his hands.

“Oh. Woojin. Here to patch me up?” Felix asks, and he smiles blindingly. Woojin nods, motioning for him to take a seat on the bench next to the wall of lockers. Felix complies, the gauze around his hands quickly abandoned.

Jisung reminds standing, watching as Woojin pulls out a familiar looking bottle of antiseptic.

“If I hadn’t gone to see one to get my stitches removed, I would think this place has no doctors,” Jisung says, a ghost of a smile dancing on his lips. Woojin laughs at that, carefully pouring some onto a cotton pad.

“You were the first person I did it for since I took over the business,” Woojin says, maybe a little too lightly, considering the gravity of his words. “And now I’m doing it for Felix. He’s a friend, after all,” Woojin adds, and he looks up to smile at him.

Jisung leans back against the lockers, trying to process the information Woojin has offered him.

“So that’s how you figured it out,” He accuses, and Felix looks up at him with a smile.

“Word also travels fast, Jisung. People talk,” Felix responds. “But, yeah. That’s how I figured it out,” He adds, once he notices the look on Jisung’s face.

“I can’t believe it. All this time, I was trying to keep it from you, when you were doing the exact same thing,” Jisung laughs, matching Felix’s own, but slightly deeper, laughter.

Felix shakes his head, unbelieving.

“I guess that makes us both idiots,” He sighs. Jisung feels oddly calm about all of this, but part of him knows that it’s because he has someone familiar to confide in now. Jisung knows that he can always go to either Woojin or Changbin, but he doesn’t know them the way he knows _Felix_. 

“You’re really good,” Jisung finally says, breaking the short silence between them. Felix glances up at him, smiling brightly. 

He’s the same Felix he’s always known.

“So are you. From what I’ve heard, at least,” Felix responds, and he hisses when Woojin prods at one of his wounds. Jisung glances down, concerned.

This isn’t the Felix he’s always known. 

There’s so much to uncover. Why he started fighting, how he got into it. Curiosity fills every crevice of Jisung’s brain, taking over.

“Don’t move,” Woojin murmurs, pressing a hand against Felix’s skin. Felix winces, but manages to stay put. From the side, Jisung watches Woojin patch Felix up.

It’s strangely parallel to all the times Woojin has patched him up, filling Jisung with a sense of comfort. This is familiar, even if Felix is the one being mended.

Afterwards, when Woojin’s done and Felix has bid the both of them goodnight, Jisung slumps onto the bench.

“Long night,” Woojin comments. He sounds awfully exhausted.

Jisung lays his head on Woojin’s shoulder, and feels the way he tenses, just briefly, and then relaxes into his touch.

“Long night,” He agrees. Woojin doesn’t say anything for a long moment, the sound of his breathing filling the otherwise empty room. Jisung keeps his mouth shut, afraid to ruin the moment.

Woojin is the first to break the silence.

“Come back, Jisung. It’s time to stop being scared,” Woojin finally says, softly. Jisung separates himself from Woojin’s touch, feeling as if he’d been slapped across the face.

It seems as if they always come back to this, a sort of push and pull.

“ _Scared?_ ” He repeats. Woojin may be right, but that doesn’t lessen the sting of his words.

Woojin winces, and tries to move towards Jisung, surely an attempt to comfort him.

Jisung moves back for every inch Woojin moves closer, until he eventually gives up. He doesn’t want comfort. He wants understanding, something Woojin has never failed to give him up until tonight.

“I was _stabbed_. That’s not something I can just bounce back from,” Jisung snaps. Woojin flinches at his words, but remains silent. His gaze falls to the ground.

Jisung pauses, trying to keep himself together.

“Coming here tonight was already hard enough. You had no place to make it worse,” Jisung continues, his voice shaking. The thought of going back into the ring terrifies him, even if he misses it with an ache he has never felt before. 

For every step he takes forward, he takes another two backwards. Still, he’s trying. He made progress by coming here tonight.

“You might as well try,” Woojin murmurs, as if he hasn’t already _been_ trying, and something instead of Jisung breaks.

He stands up from the bench, so abruptly that Woojin looks up at him in confusion. Tears push past the brim of his eyes, and Jisung’s voice is hoarse when he says, “That’s easy to say, considering you’re the reason I was even hurt in the first place.”

It’s an awful thing to say. Jisung regrets it the second he registers the pain in Woojin’s face, but it’s too late. He can’t take it back, no matter how much he may want to. This entire conversation is a train wreck, growing worse with every passing second.

“I thought we were moving past it. We talked about this. In detail.” Woojin’s voice is quiet, but it still vibrates through Jisung’s bones. He feels ashamed, for misdirecting his fears and anger onto Woojin. He had no right to, but it’s too late.

Jisung doesn’t say anything else, just pushes his way out of the room. His chest is heaving with sobs, and Woojin doesn’t follow him. Not this time.

—

Changbin is the next to try.

He shows up at Jisung’s apartment two nights later, the expression on his face urgent. Jisung squints at his disheveled appearance—his shirt is inside out, and he clearly hasn’t brushed his hair—but doesn’t say anything about it.

“It’s been over a month, Jisung,” He blurts out. Jisung casts his eyes downwards as he steps aside, motioning for Changbin to come in. He does just that, striding past Jisung and into the apartment. He doesn’t sit on the couch, opting to pace across the room instead. 

Jisung’s mind flashes back to his conversation with Woojin, feeling uneasy. They haven’t spoken to each other since. The last thing he needs is to get into a fight with Changbin as well.

“I know how long it’s been.” Jisung’s voice is small compared to Changbin’s, whose face softens when he sees how visibly shaken Jisung is. He doesn’t want to ruin his friendship with Changbin. He’s already hurt Woojin.

“Hey. I’m sorry if that came off as a little too strong. I didn’t know how else to put it,” Changbin amends, moving closer to him. Jisung nods, but stays rooted in place.

Changbin falters, opting to simply hover near Jisung, who’s grateful.

“You have to go back eventually. Not exactly for a match, or anything on that level,” Changbin reminds him. “I just think it’d be good for you, from a trainer’s perspective.”

Jisung thinks about it. He thinks about the wet _thunk_ of the knife breaking through layers of skin and muscle that night, about the scar it had left behind. He thinks about the pain on Woojin’s face when he dumped all of the blame onto him, even after accepting his apology.

Changbin waits, a pillar of unrelenting patience.

“Not yet,” Jisung finally answers. Disappointment flashes across Changbin’s face, but it’s quickly replaced by something else.

 _Regret_ , Jisung realizes. Changbin carries so much more than he had ever realized.

He sucks in a breath, sinking onto the couch to ease the weariness in his bones. Changbin follows like it’s second nature, his expression sympathetic. He reaches over, placing a hand over Jisung’s. The gesture is unfamiliar, but he doesn’t resist.

Jisung looks at Changbin, _really_ looks at him—at the curve of his lips and jaw, at the gleam in his eyes, and the way his lips are just barely parted, tongue poking out. Jisung’s noticed he does that a lot, but didn’t pay attention to it up until now.

 _No,_ Jisung thinks. _This is wrong. I don’t feel this way about Changbin. He’s my trainer. Nothing more_.

Except, Jisung’s moving closer to him, and Changbin isn’t backing away, not exactly. Instead, he’s moving along with Jisung, eyes wide, but trusting.

Jisung’s heart aches. There’s obviously more to this than he knows.

 _Don’t do this_ , whispers the voice in his head, but the promise of a distraction is hard to resist. Jisung chooses to ignore it, and presses his lips to Changbin’s instead, trying to block out the warning bells thundering loudly in his head.

Changbin, surprisingly, is pliant under him, lips falling open _so_ , so easily. Jisung first thought is that he could do this for ages. Changbin shifts, bringing a hand into Jisung’s hair, and it is strangely intimate, the way he does it so gently and carefully. It reminds him of Woojin. He hasn’t seen him since Felix’s match, but Changbin probably has. He has to know that something’s up.

 _Focus_ , Jisung chides. _This isn’t about Woojin_.

Jisung jolts at the thought of Woojin, guilt flooding through him, and Changbin pulls back almost immediately, his eyes wide and cheeks already flushed. They’ve barely kissed, but he’s so clearly affected. Jisung has to suppress the urge to cry.

“Did I hurt you or something?” Changbin asks, worry painting his face. _Or something_ , Jisung thinks. He shouldn’t be doing this.

“No. Not at all,” Jisung answers, watching the way Changbin relaxes. The warning bells in his head won’t shut up, growing louder and louder with every second that passes by.

Jisung heaves a sigh, but dives back in, kissing Changbin with a little more fervor instead. Changbin matches it with his own, one hand in his hair and the other pressed against his neck, a cool reminder of how closely connected they are. 

_This isn’t right_ , Jisung thinks. Changbin is his trainer, his _partner_ in the ring, but kissing him is so easy. It is so easy to lick into Changbin’s mouth, to slide his tongue against Changbin’s, and tangle his fingers into strands of hair, tugging and pulling at his own volition. 

Jisung breaks away from him to slide into his lap, knees pressed to the outer edges of Changbin’s upper thighs.

Changbin’s eyes are dilated as he looks up at him and places his hands on Jisung’s hips, like they were made to fit perfectly into the curving slope of his hip bones. 

It’s wrong. Jisung knows this. He has no romantic feelings for Changbin. He’s using him as a distraction from his own emotions towards Woojin, which isn’t fair to either of them.

That’s all Changbin is right now. A distraction, and Jisung hates himself for it.

Yet, when Changbin pulls him closer and mouths along his jaw, Jisung doesn’t resist. Instead, he closes his eyes, tilting his head back as he sighs, softly, previous thoughts forgotten. Changbin moves down from his jaw, seemingly bored, and goes towards his neck.

Jisung likes it, the way he kisses the skin lazily, sucking on it every so often, leaving room for marks to bloom. It’s purposeful, the way Changbin kisses him, like there's more to it than Jisung knows. Changbin’s working his way back up now, chasing Jisung’s lips again, and he happily complies. 

Their lips fit together almost perfectly, and it is not long before Jisung’s pawing at Changbin’s shirt, a question begging to be asked in his eyes.

Changbin looks up at him, his breathing heavier than earlier. Jisung watches the way his chest rises and falls, waiting.

He lets go of Jisung to put his hands onto his shirt, yanking it over his head. It’s discarded somewhere on the couch, and Jisung leans back in Changbin’s lap, his eyes wandering.

He reaches out a hand, skimming across skin. Jisung has never realized that Changbin’s tattoos extend across his torso. 

“They look good on you,” Jisung says, quietly. His hands wander across the dips and curves of Changbin’s skin, tracing the story of his tattoos. He leaves a trail of goosebumps in his wake, rising carefully under his fingertips.

Jisung smiles down at him, and this time it’s his turn to connect his lips to the length of Changbin’s neck. His own kisses are harsher, more fast paced, but Changbin doesn’t say anything when Jisung bites at his skin, knowing it’ll darken by the time the sun rises tomorrow and that Jisung will hate himself for what he’s done.

Jisung kisses Changbin for all he’s worth regardless, leaving behind a trail of marks on his skin. His kisses lack the sort of intimacy Changbin is giving him, but neither of them comment on it.

Changbin’s fingers pull at a fistful of hair, tugging. They move to rest at his neck, cool against Jisung’s own skin.

Neither of them speak, and Jisung wonders if Changbin knows. If he knows that this is just kissing for Jisung, and nothing more. If that this is Jisung’s way of trying to move on from the fight he had with Woojin. 

There’s no way he doesn’t. Changbin’s smarter than that.

Jisung thinks back to the time Changbin asked what was going on between him and Woojin. He hadn’t realized it was a loaded question at the time, shrugging it off as morbid curiosity. Now, it makes sense. 

Changbin must know that it is nothing but a moment of weakness for Jisung. That he doesn’t see him the same way. 

Jisung’s stomach churns uneasily. These thoughts are not him.

Jisung’s about to say something, anything, really, when a sharp knock cuts through the air, startling both of them. Changbin looks at Jisung expectantly when he pulls away from his lips, confused.

“You didn’t say anything about expecting guests,” Changbin comments lightly, the corners of his lips tugging upwards. They’re kiss swollen, a reminder of what Jisung’s done. He spares a glance back at the door, his mind racing.

“That’s because I _wasn’t_ expecting any guests,” Jisung finally mutters, sliding off of Changbin’s lap. It’s a little too easy, how he detaches himself. Changbin leans back onto the couch, placing his hands behind his head. Jisung can’t bear to look at him.

He strides across the living room instead, towards the door. He briefly contemplates if it’s worth answering, but pulls it open anyways. Dread fills him when he notices who is on his doorstep, dressed in casual clothing for once.

“Oh,” He says, breathlessly. Jisung pats his hair down, trying not to appear as disheveled as he feels. He doesn’t have to look in a mirror to know that there are marks blooming across his skin. They itch at him, a reminder of his mistake. Woojin is silent for a long moment, clearly taking in his appearance.

Jisung is somewhat mortified, but he can’t hide.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Jisung admits. It is taking every fiber in his being to not look back at Changbin. Woojin flushes at Jisung’s words, shrugging lightly.

“I just thought I’d stop by to see you. I wanted to talk about what happened the other night.” Woojin looks past Jisung’s shoulder right then, back to where Changbin’s sitting, and Jisung watches everything he has ever known crumble in front of his very eyes.

Jisung turns around just enough to meet Changbin’s stare, a stupidly smug smile on his face. His shirt lays next to him in a crumpled heap, forgotten. Jisung wishes he’d thought to put it back on. 

Instead, he sits there, flaunting the marks on his skin and the messiness of his hair. _There’s no reason for him to hide_ , Jisung thinks. 

Objectively, they weren’t doing anything wrong.

Subjectively, Jisung was.

“I didn’t realize that you had company. Sorry for bothering you.” Woojin’s response is curt, and when Jisung looks back, his jaw is clenched tightly. The expression on his face is unreadable.

“ _Woojin_ ,” Jisung sighs, holding out a hand towards him, as if to offer some comfort. Woojin jerks backwards, out of Jisung’s reach. 

“I can explain,” He offers, albeit uneasily. _What is there to explain?_

“No. You’re clearly busy. I’ll leave you to it.” The words fall flat, and Woojin spares him one last glance before he’s walking away, footsteps echoing through the hallway of Jisung’s apartment building.

Jisung stands in the doorway, a weird mixture of shock and unease spreading through him. 

He doesn’t know how many seconds pass before he thinks to close the door shut, turning to look at Changbin.

“Well?” Changbin prompts. He hasn’t moved an inch, that smug smile still written across his face.

Jisung breathes in deeply, closing his eyes. There are two ways he can approach this.

For a second, neither of them say anything, and then, Jisung’s moving across the room. He practically launches himself back onto Changbin’s lap, hands cupping his cheeks as he kisses him.

“What about Woojin?” Changbin mumbles against Jisung’s lips. His tongue darts out and into Jisung’s mouth, swallowing his answer before it even falls from his lips. Jisung’s hands wind themselves into Changbin’s hair, tugging backwards, so he can pull him away from his lips long enough to respond.

“Woojin and I aren’t dating, and you’re _here_. With me,” Jisung finally answers. Changbin’s head is tilted at an awkward angle from where he sits beneath Jisung, lips parted and breathing heavy yet again. Jisung loosens his grip, and Changbin takes that as his opportunity to jump back in without responding, their lips meeting messily.

It’s not the answer Changbin was expecting. Jisung knows this, and so does Changbin.

 _This isn’t you_ , the voice in Jisung’s head reminds him, but he doesn’t stop.

Changbin’s hands trace the edges of his hips, moving up to his waist, and Jisung angles his head back. He’s too good at this.

Jisung won’t say it out loud. Changbin already knows what he’s thinking. He has to, which is why neither of them stop themselves.

—

Felix mourns Jisung’s stupidity over take-out the next day. Neither of them work Saturdays, and Jisung hasn’t gone down to the club to practice in ages, leaving him with a lot of free time.

“I thought you liked Woojin,” Felix mutters, scooping some food out of his container. Jisung’s own has been left untouched on the table.

“We got into a fight after you left,” Jisung admits, and it’s a half-hearted lie whispered under his breath. If anything, the fight had been one sided.

Felix laughs at that, apparently seeing right through him.

That’s the thing about Felix. He has an uncanny tendency to pinpoint everyone down, to see right through them, transparent or not.

It used to scare him, but he’s grown used to it by now.

“He wants me to come back,” Jisung admits, reaching for his food. He’s not hungry, but he needs to do something with his hands, something to keep him grounded. So, he busies himself with opening the container, searching for a fork.

Felix, who’s sitting on the couch beside him, doesn’t say anything.

This is how conversations with Felix usually are; he doesn’t push or pull, and instead waits for the other person to spill the words from their mouth.

That’s what Jisung is doing right now. The words have worked their way up his throat, building up the way water does in a dam, until it finally bursts.

Felix hands him a spare napkin, and that is all it takes for everything to spill from his lips.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You came.” Felix’s voice is a strangely comforting mixture of awe and disbelief, and Jisung feels a surge of familiarity course through him.
> 
> “Yeah. I did,” Jisung responds, and he’s sliding his bag off of his shoulder without a second thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this update is really short im sorry :( 
> 
> im not sure if the next chapter will be done by next week i have a lot going on rn..plus whenever i try to write my brain gets all [static noises]
> 
> anyways!!! this is more of a filler chapter than anything but some side characters show up again which is kinda nice + also!!! please leave kudos n comments if u can!! writing comes along so much more easier when i get feedback T____T

Jisung does go back, eventually.

He goes back for Changbin, strangely enough. It’s almost painful, knowing he’s going back for someone who isn’t Woojin.

Still, he knows that Sundays are Woojin’s day off. These are the days he usually runs into Chan if he’s squeezing in an extra training session with Changbin, but he hasn’t done that for a while. 

Jisung sighs.

Chan doesn’t smile at him when he reaches the door.

“Woojin isn’t here,” He tells him, and Jisung flinches without a second thought.

“I know,” Jisung says, the words cutting up his throat on their way out.

Chan’s expression hardens, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

Jisung walks past him without another word, heart hammering in his chest. He’s not sure why he’s here.

Still, the walk down the hall is too short, and Jisung finds himself standing in front of the door leading into the training room, feeling like he’s at a crossroads. He can either go in, or he can turn back and pretend as if he was never here in the first place.

Jisung ends up pushing the door open, no matter how much he doesn’t want to. He’s always struggled with this sort of stuff, with talking to people. Most of the time, he just waits for everything to blow over.

_“You can’t keep doing that. You can’t be an asshole, and then wait for everyone to forgive you. If you wanna fix what’s going on between you, Changbin, and Woojin, then you have to talk to them,” and when Felix meets his eyes, they’re knowing._

_Felix has always been a good person, so unlike Jisung._

He spots Changbin almost immediately, too used to the many training sessions they’ve had. It’s not something his body can forget, the routine of getting in shape and learning how to pack a punch. 

Changbin’s over by the punching bag, fingers curled into dangerously tight fists.

Jisung clears his throat, and the sound of skin on leather is cut off abruptly as Changbin steps out from behind the punching bag, covered in sweat. Changbin meets his eyes, solidifying his acknowledgment of Jisung’s presence.

The marks, of course, are still there, making Jisung’s shame bloom with every passing second. He’d covered his own before he left the house, wondering if Changbin would notice.

If he has, it isn’t apparent. 

Changbin’s always been hard to read.

“Jisung.” Changbin’s tone is flat, nothing like the way he’s talked to him before. It reminds Jisung of when Chan had introduced them for the first time, all those months ago.

So much has changed since.

“Can we talk?” Jisung asks, and his voice is nothing short of feeble. It’s pathetic, but he can’t take it back, no matter how much he may want to.

Changbin’s hands fall to his sides, chest rising and falling rapidly. Jisung’s never seen him so out of breath before. There’s surely a reason for it.

“About what?” 

Jisung grimaces, wondering how he should approach this. He hadn’t expected Changbin to _ask_ something in return, and it’s throwing him off track. But that’s how Changbin usually is, the type is ask questions first and think everything out. 

He was not that person when Jisung threw caution to the wind and kissed him.

“Hello? Jisung?” Changbin calls out, softly, and Jisung’s eyes refocus back to the scene in front of him. He needs to get a grip, keep himself grounded long enough to get through the conversation. 

“Sorry. I got a little distracted,” Jisung apologizes. He takes a deep breath, figuring he might as well get started. 

It’s like ripping off a bandaid. 

“I came here to talk about us,” Jisung admits. Changbin wipes the sweat off of his brow, staring at him silently. _That’s the worst part_ , Jisung thinks. _The silence, like he doesn’t know what to say._

It’s nothing like ripping off a bandaid. It’s even more painful.

Changbin looks down at his hands, fiddling with the pieces of tape that are unfurling from his wrist. Jisung watches him, waiting. It’s his turn to speak, technically, and Jisung has yet to figure out what to say next.

“I’m surprised that you even came to see me in the first place,” Changbin says, and the words cut through the silence in the kind of way that hurts. 

Changbin shouldn’t be surprised. 

Jisung should be the one who knows better.

“I already know that you don’t like me, so if that’s what you’re here for, please spare me the rejection,” Changbin says, and there’s a sort of desperation in his voice that makes Jisung’s eyes well up with guilty tears. He furiously blinks them away, knowing he shouldn’t be crying. Not after what he did.

Changbin won’t meet his eyes, and Jisung thinks he’s ruined whatever bond they’d formed over the past couple of months, that it can’t be salvaged, and it’s heartbreaking.

Jisung trusts Changbin with a ferocity he has never known before. 

He’s the one who taught him the difference between throwing and packing a punch, how to use his size and body to his advantage in a match.

Everything Jisung knows, it’s thanks to Changbin.

Changbin was there for him through it all, and it was Jisung who crushed their friendship within the span of one night. Stomped on it and watched the way it shattered, all because he wanted a distraction from Woojin.

The self-pity makes him feel even worse, like he isn’t allowed to be pitying himself and, yeah. He isn’t. 

“I’m not here to reject you,” Jisung blurts out. Changbin’s eyebrows quirk upwards, clearly surprised, but Jisung is quick to explain, words tumbling out and from his lips.

“I’m not here to confess, either.” 

He visibly flinches at that, and Jisung’s starting to think that Changbin wasn’t as aware as he’d previously assumed, and there it is. The bitter taste of guilt, crawling up his throat. A reminder, perhaps. More psychological than anything else, but a reminder, nonetheless.

“Jisung. It’s okay,” Changbin finally says, breaking the never ending silence between them. Jisung rocks back on his heels nervously, unsure of how to react.

Felix’s voice runs through his head, whispering into his ear.

_It’s time to stop running, Jisung. Running from work eventually gave you boxing, but running from this isn’t going to give you anything but a broken heart._

Jisung hates it when Felix is right. _It’s the quietness_ , Jisung thinks. That’s how he’s able to pin people down so easily, like butterflies to a board. How he reads people in ways Jisung can’t even imagine.

Felix is right.

He runs. Too much, if he’s being honest, and that won’t get him anywhere.

“It’s not okay. None of this is okay. I used you. Don’t say that. Please,” Jisung confesses, and there’s no meeting Changbin’s gaze any longer. He can’t bring himself to do it, no matter how curious he may be.

_Is he shocked? Or did he know all along?_

“Jisung. Hey.” Changbin’s voices breaks through the crashing waves of Jisung’s thoughts, bringing him back to shore, but barely.

Changbin, his lifeline.

Jisung blinks back unwanted tears.

“I knew. I knew you didn’t like me. I’m just as guilty as you are,” Changbin admits, voice cracking the way that Jisung’s old radio does, the one he bought in college and gave up on when he graduated.

Jisung swallows, racking his mind for a response.

“Either way, it wasn’t fair of me,” Jisung says. It’s a meager apology, missing the actual _I’m sorry_ , but Jisung is still learning.

Too slowly, perhaps.

“Just, give me some time, yeah? In the meantime, you can practice with Felix whenever you choose to come back,” Changbin responds, and his face is expressionless again.

It’s familiar, but feels so wrong.

“Felix,” Jisung repeats, and he knows why Changbin didn’t say Woojin. It shouldn’t be surprising, but that doesn’t lessen the sting.

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll do that,” Jisung continues.

Changbin’s still got that funny look on his face, but Jisung knows it’s not his place to say anything. To offer comfort.

He leaves instead, offering Changbin a quick pat on the shoulders before he’s darting out of the room.

Chan doesn’t say anything when he walks past through the door for the second time that day, and Jisung can’t tell if he’s relieved or disappointed.

—

Jisung can’t bring himself to look at Woojin.

He knows he should reach out to him. Each time he looks at Felix during work, he is given a reminder of what he has yet to do.

Woojin, on the contrary, is distant. The few times Jisung manages to catch a glance, his eyes are somewhere far away, disconnected from the world Jisung’s living in.

_That was my doing_ , Jisung thinks. 

“He stares at you too, you know. When he thinks you’re not looking,” Felix says, a little too casually for Jisung’s taste.

He frowns. Woojin hasn’t purposefully glanced his way in what feels like ages.

“I don’t think so, Lix. He’s been avoiding me,” Jisung responds, and his voice is hoarse, a sign of tears to come.

He swallows them down, and focuses his gaze back on Felix. He’s smiling like he knows something Jisung doesn’t.

He probably does. Felix has always been observant.

“Or he thinks that you’ve been avoiding him, so he’s trying to give you space and this is all one big misunderstanding,” Felix points out.

Jisung’s contemplating the idea when the phone on his desk starts ringing loudly, and it flies out of his mind before he can latch onto it.

What a shame. 

—

Jisung stands outside of the club.

_Felix is waiting for you_ , he reminds himself, but his feet don’t budge. He feels rooted in place, held back by distant memories.

Jisung wills himself to breathe. He’d promised Felix that he’d come today, even if it meant running into Woojin. They still haven’t spoken, and Jisung isn’t sure what he’s waiting for anymore.

A passerby shoves his shoulder, hard, as they’re walking past, and it jolts him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t realized that he was blocking the way.

Jisung reluctantly takes a step forward, and reaches out to push the door open.

_One step at a time_ , Jisung thinks.

He’s the first person Jisung sees when he crosses through the doorway.

The bar, of course, is empty. They don’t open until nighttime, but Hyunjin’s behind the counter, cleaning glasses. Woojin is seated on one of the barstools, elbows pressing into the smooth counter.

Jisung wonders if he can get to the door without either of them noticing.

He lets the door close, hand outstretched so it falls back into place soundlessly. When he looks back up, Hyunjin’s staring at him. Jisung freezes in his spot, unsure of what to do.

“Well, how nice of you to join us,” Hyunjin murmurs, and Jisung watches as Woojin turns in his seat to face him.

It’s the first time Woojin has looked at him in days, and Jisung isn’t sure if he wants to smile or cry more. He settles for a grimace meant to be a sorry excuse of a smile.

“I came to practice. With Felix,” Jisung finally blurts out, as if either of them needed an explanation for his presence.

Woojin doesn’t say anything as he shifts in his seat, facing Hyunjin yet again. Jisung hadn’t noticed the papers scattered around him until now.

“Are you gonna kiss him too?” Hyunjin asks, lightly, like they’re discussing dinner plans. Jisung’s hands curl up into fists, frustrated. Clearly, Woojin had told him. Or Changbin, maybe. They all know each other, so it doesn’t come off as a surprise.

“Hyunjin. Watch it,” Woojin says, cutting off Jisung’s own retort.

He relaxes his hands, surprised. Hyunjin doesn’t respond, but his eyes pierce right through Jisung. He can feel them on him, even after he’s long gone.

Jisung finds Felix waiting for him.

“You came.” Felix’s voice is a strangely comforting mixture of awe and disbelief, and Jisung feels a surge of familiarity course through him.

“Yeah. I did,” Jisung responds, and he’s sliding his bag off of his shoulder without a second thought.

_Just like old times_ , he thinks.

—

Woojin sighs.

“You shouldn’t have said that, Hyunjin,” He scolds, but Hyunjin doesn’t back down, eyes focused on the door Jisung had gone through, even though he’s no longer in the room.

“He had it coming,” Hyunjin responds, firmly, and he sets down the glass he had been cleaning down onto the countertop with a loud clang. Woojin flinches, startled. He’d forgotten how awfully protective Hyunjin was.

Paperwork abandoned, Woojin looks at him through bleary eyes. Hyunjin’s face softens as he waits for him to speak. 

That’s the thing about Hyunjin. He’s always there, willing to listen, to point out mistakes and flaws. Being friends with him is an acquired taste. He can be a little brash sometimes, and lacks a filter, but he’s one of the best friends Woojin has made ever since he fell into this line of work, so he’s learned to accept it. Deal with it, even. 

Frankly, he didn’t think they’d ever end up getting along so well, and yet, here they are. Hyunjin is dependable in ways he had never thought possible.

“We aren’t dating. We never were. He’s allowed to do as he pleases,” Woojin admits, as much as it may pain him to do so. 

Despite all that, there was still a part of him that had thought Jisung _knew_ , that his heart ached with an unfamiliar feeling just as much as Woojin’s heart did whenever they talked to each other.

Clearly, he was wrong. He was wrong to push Jisung into coming back, and wrong to think that someone like Jisung could ever see him in such a light.

“There’s so much he doesn’t know,” Hyunjin says then, and his voice is featherlight, floating up and around the bar.

Woojin snorts at that, trying to hold back his laughter. 

“Don’t be dramatic, Hyunjin-ah. None of the secrets I keep have anything to do with him.”

Hyunjin’s face contorts, but he doesn’t say anything else.

—

“He said that to you?” Felix’s voice is loud within the emptiness of the room, disbelief painted on his face. Jisung shrugs, and aims for his bare chest. 

Jisung had kept his shirt on. Somehow, hiding the scar makes it all easier.

Typically, the punch would knock the air out of his opponent’s lungs, leaving them vulnerable to more attacks, but Felix darts out of the way, his features morphing into a lighthearted grin instead of pain.

“You’re out of practice,” He comments, but there’s no malice behind the words. 

Jisung sighs, quickly raising his hands to their previous position, back up to his chest. Sweat has already started running down both of their foreheads, despite how little they’ve been going at it.

“I’ll give him a piece of my mind, if you want. Like, yeah, what you did was fucked up, but he didn’t have to be such an ass about it,” Felix continues, and he’s the first to strike this time, his fist successfully connecting with Jisung’s abdomen.

“Shit,” Jisung curses, clutching at the scar running along the length of his skin. Across from him, Felix’s eyes go wide with guilt.

“Oh, no. I forgot. Are you okay?” Felix asks, stepping closer to him. 

_Just a little more_ , Jisung thinks to himself. Felix comes to a stop in front of him, and Jisung lunges then, fist connecting with skin as Felix doubles over, groaning.

“Never underestimate your opponent,” Jisung reminds him, trying to hold back his smile. Changbin’s the one who taught him that. 

Still, it feels so right, to be back here. 

Across from him, Felix straightens himself back up. For a second, Jisung fears that he could be mad, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face that erases any lingering doubts.

It feels so wrong, to not be doing this with Changbin. Briefly, Jisung wonders where he is, if he’s stopped showing up as much because of him. He’s quick to dismiss the thought. _As if his life revolves around me._

“You’re distracted,” Felix observes, and Jisung scowls. He knows Felix is right, but the reminder hurts.

“I know,” Jisung agrees. They’ve stopped fighting now, leaving Felix to scrutinize Jisung in a way he couldn’t earlier.

Jisung walks off to the side, rifling through his bag for a bottle of water. Good habits don’t die easily. Felix does the same, and they stand in silence for a while, trying to catch their breath.

Felix is the first to talk.

“You ready to go again?” He asks.

Jisung nods.

—

The next day, Jisung accidentally crashes Minho and Felix’s training session.

In his defense, Felix never mentioned what days he trains, so Jisung had just _assumed_ that it was safe to show up. Besides, sitting at home had started making him restless in ways only boxing could tame.

When Minho’s eyes flick over to Jisung’s, he scowls. It’s not enough to scare Jisung, but it does unnerve him.

“Jisung, right?” He asks, lowering his arms back to his sides. Jisung stiffens slightly, nodding in response.

Across from Minho, Felix appears to be surprised. Jisung isn’t sure why.

“Changbin hasn’t been showing up to practice for the past couple of days. It makes sense, if you’re back,” Minho says, and it’s a little too casual.

Minho must know. 

Jisung racks his brain, trying to remember if he’s ever seen Changbin with him, but the only memory he uncovers is the way Changbin had watched Minho’s match that very first night, with an unknown intensity.

“I didn’t know he stopped showing up,” Jisung responds, a little too quietly. Minho stares at Jisung pointedly, almost as if he doesn’t believe him.

Felix’s eyes dart back and forth, a little too knowing for Jisung’s liking.

“Of course you didn’t. Just like how you didn’t know Changbin liked you when you kissed him. How you did it, even though you like someone else. Even though you knew about Woojin-hyung,” Minho snaps, the sarcasm evident in his voice.

Jisung bites on his lip so hard that he draws blood. It’s metallic.

Normally, Jisung’s first instinct would be to call Minho an asshole, but he’d be lying if he said that. Minho’s just looking out for his friend with a fierce sort of loyalty, the kind that Changbin deserves. Woojin, too.

Instead, Jisung sighs.

“You’re right. I knew that he liked me,” He admits. Felix shifts on his feet, and Minho narrows his gaze, surprise flickering across his face for the briefest of moments.

“At least you can admit it.” Minho’s voice is rough, any traces of surprise gone.

Jisung jerks his head into a nod, sliding his bag off of his shoulders.

“So, is it cool if I train for a little? I won’t bother you guys.” Felix smiles at his words, giving him a thumbs up. Jisung dips his head in acknowledgment, but keeps his gaze focused on Minho.

After what feels like ages, Minho nods.

Jisung’s shoulders slump with relief, and he leans down to grab his gloves. Even without Changbin there to tell him, he knows he has to condition his hands again. It’s been too long since he used them, and he doesn’t want to risk injuring himself by throwing a bad punch. 

Jisung’s lucky it hasn’t already happened, mainly since he knows that he can’t bounce back from yet another injury. It already took him too long to come back after his last one.

Jisung’s adjusting his gloves when he hears the sound of a door opening. He cranes his neck immediately, wondering if it’s Woojin. Instead, he’s met with the familiar sight of red hair.

_Seungmin_ , Jisung remembers. Across the room, Felix falters when he notices, and Minho’s fist connects with skin.

Jisung frowns. Felix never hesitates when he’s boxing. Something about Seungmin must’ve thrown him off.

“Felix! Still as distracted as ever!” Seungmin calls out, but there’s a large smile on his face. He’s clearly teasing, which makes Jisung wonder how well they know each other.

Minho gives Seungmin a brief glance and a nod, before he’s looking back at Felix.

“Concentrate,” He urges him, and Felix snaps out of it.

Seungmin’s still smiling, but there’s nothing malicious about it. Jisung doesn’t understand.

“You really are back,” Seungmin says then, pulling Jisung out his thoughts and plopping him back in the training room.

Jisung raises an eyebrow.

“You keep up with me?” He asks, and his tone is light. It’s meant to be a joke, a feeble attempt at one to dissipate the tension stiffening his body.

Seungmin, however, scowls, and any source of friendliness on his features is wiped away.

“No, but I’m friends with Changbin-hyung,” Seungmin responds. Dread fills Jisung. Of course everyone knows each other. It shouldn’t surprise him.

“I didn’t know that,” Jisung says, his voice falling quiet. It’s barely discernible over the sound of Minho and Felix fighting. They’ve already picked up a solid rhythm, which means they must match each other well, _understand_ each other well.

Seungmin shakes his head at Jisung’s response, and he’s smiling in the kind of way that unnerves him.

“That’s because you’re so isolated from the rest of us. Not only are you a newbie, but you don’t talk to anyone that isn’t Woojin-hyung,” Seungmin tells him, and it’s grating. To hear the truth being repeated to him in a way he hasn’t heard before.

Jisung shouldn’t have come to train today. It would’ve been better if he had just stuck with his morning jog, and then called it a day.

Yet, here he is. He’s barely spoken to anyone, but still somehow managed to make everything worse.

He never realized how closed off he must’ve come off as, especially to the other boxers. All those weeks training alone, limiting conversations to Changbin or Woojin, and he never once even stopped to consider it.

“I didn’t realize,” Jisung says, a little too quietly. 

“Excuse me,” He adds, reaching down for his bag. Training can wait. Seungmin steps to the side, wordlessly letting him pass, and Jisung knows he’s made the right decision.

Behind him, he can hear Felix calling his name, but that doesn’t stop him. 

—

Jisung sits on the steps of his apartment building, mourning his own stupidity. It’s chilly outside, the sun dipping below the horizon and slowly taking its warmth along with it.

Jisung knows that there’s only so much time he can give himself to wallow in pity before he does something about it, but none of that seems important right now. 

He’d ruined the two good things in his life, and he doesn’t know how to come back from that. _How_ to fix it, more importantly.

Jisung sighs, burying his face in his hands. Cool wind presses against him, reminding him of the darkening sky. He should go inside soon. Besides, if the nice woman from the apartment below his catches him here, she’ll definitely end up yapping his ear off for being an idiot.

The thought makes him smile, albeit briefly.

—

Jisung shows up on his doorstep after what feels like ages. How he got his address is beyond Woojin.

Woojin isn’t sure how to greet him either, all things considered. He’d never told anyone how he felt, let alone Jisung, but he still feels uneasy knowing what had happened between him and Changbin.

“I feel like I owe you something. An explanation or apology of some sort,” Jisung blurts out, fidgeting from one foot to the other. It looks like he’d just gotten back from a training session, which is puzzling. Changbin hasn’t shown up for days.

Not that Woojin would know.

Woojin raises an eyebrow at him, wondering what he could possibly mean.

“You don’t owe me anything, Jisung. Go home. It’s late, and you must be tired,” Woojin says, his tone dismissive. He moves to close the door, but Jisung sticks his foot in between it and the frame, hand shooting out onto the frame.

“ _Please_.” His voice is scratched raw, like he’s said it so many times that it’s started to hurt.

Woojin shakes his head, adamant.

There’s a long silence.

Then, “I’m sorry.”

Woojin lowers his head, even though Jisung can’t see him from behind the door.

“So am I,” He admits, and Jisung slides his foot out of the doorway, along with his hand. Woojin closes the door, clicking the lock into place. 

His forehead falls to rest against it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minho smiles, and for a split second, Jisung thinks they’re making progress.
> 
> “He’s more than welcome to box across the room,” Minho says, still smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me in every single a/n of this fic: omg im so sorry for the slow build 
> 
> anyways!!! i wrote most of this chapter in like. one day. i was supposed to go through n edit it but i am lazy zzz ill do that later so ignore any spelling mistakes
> 
> as always leave a kudos or comment if u enjoyed!! <3 thank u to the four people who consistently read it keeps me motivated

The next time Jisung shows up, the training room is almost crowded. It’s an unusual sight.

Jisung stands in the doorway, slightly shocked. Before, it was always him and Changbin. Occasionally, Woojin would pop in from time to time, just to see how things were going between them, but there were never more than three people in the room at once.

It feels like it was forever ago. The thought saddens him.

Jisung glances across the room, eyes reflexively landing on Felix. He’s over in the corner, right by the punching bags. His gaze is intense, sort of like the way he gets when he’s talking to a client, but there’s _something_ else coated underneath it, something greater than him trying to sort through insurance claims. 

Jisung doesn’t know how he’s never seen that spark in him before, the kind that lights up his face with something indescribable. It’s so clear to Jisung now, which leaves him wondering how long it was hidden from him.

He shakes his head. There’s no use dwelling on technicalities and baseless questions, not when it concerns the past.

Next to Felix, Minho calls out tips for every punch he lands against the leather. 

“Remember to keep your wrist straight,” Minho chides, and he reaches for Felix’s hand, positioning it correctly. He steps back with a small smile, and nods the next time Felix hits the bag. 

Jisung’s reminded of Changbin, who taught Minho how to fight. It makes sense, that he mirrors the person who taught him everything he knows. 

A few feet away, Hyunjin is standing by the next punching bag, and his gaze is strong, like nothing could break his determination. Fleetingly, Jisung wonders who trained him to be so fierce. 

His attention eventually falls on the other side of the room, where he sees Seungmin standing in the ring, fists clenched and raised to his chest. The boxer across from him is moving too fast for Jisung to identify, dodging and ducking, but he spots a girl watching them, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

 _Dahyun_ , Jisung remembers. Woojin had pointed her out once, during a match. That means Seungmin’s opponent must be Jeongin, one of her trainees. 

Seungmin lands a punch then, the sound of bone meeting skin all too familiar to his ears, and Jisung gets a fleeting glimpse at his opponent. Definitely Jeongin, he thinks. There’s no mistaking the kid.

“Jisung!” calls out a familiar voice, and he manages to pull himself out of his thoughts, searching for the source of the sound. 

His gaze falls on Felix soon enough, and he manages a sheepish smile. He’s still not used to sharing the room with other fighters. It’s new territory for him.

Minho spares him a quick glance from where he’s standing, and he’s back to looking at Felix within seconds, guiding him through the motions. Jisung treks over as Felix steps away from the punching bag for a short break, bending down to pick up a spare towel. 

He places it around his neck, and smiles blindingly at Jisung.

“Nice of you to join us,” He comments, lightly. Across from the both of them, Minho sighs.

Jisung looks over at him, ever so curious.

“I don’t think I’m very popular around here right now,” Jisung admits reluctantly, but he’s still holding Minho’s gaze as he speaks. Minho is the first to look away, scanning the room, like he’s trying to see if Jisung’s right or not. Jisung does the same.

True to his word, most of the fighters are staring at him inconspicuously. When they realize he’s caught on to their antics, they look away. 

Felix shrugs.

“Serves you right,” He says, hands still clutching at the towel around his neck. Next to him, Hyunjin stifles a laugh. It’s quickly shut down by a look from Felix, who takes the whole _only I’m allowed to rag on my friends_ concept to heart. 

Hyunjin’s laughter dies down soon enough, but Jisung doesn’t say anything, too distracted by the sound of the door opening yet again. 

From it appears Chan. He’s dressed neatly, unlike any of the other previous outfits he’s worn to the club before, and his hair is styled up nicely. It’s dizzying, to notice this change in him, but Jisung figures he must be coming from his day job. He’s still unsure of what it is.

Jisung swallows nervously, remembering the look Chan had given him the first day he came back. His anxiety skyrockets when Chan starts heading towards him.

“So this is how I die,” Jisung murmurs, and a sharp flare of panic threatens to take over his body, pressing tightly against his heart. Felix claps a hand against his back, and squeezes his shoulder for extra measure.

“No, Jisung. I don’t think he’s here for you,” Felix reassures. Jisung bites back a retort, deciding to put his trust in Felix. He’s done it before, after all.

Sure enough, he stops at Hyunjin, who smiles at him like it’s a natural born instinct, like Chan is the only person in the room. Chan’s face morphs into one that’s more fondness than anything else, and Jisung watches him reach for Hyunjin’s hand, lacing their fingers together. It’s so gentle, such a contrast between the scene around them.

“No way,” Jisung says, turning back to face Felix and Minho. The pressure in his chest slowly fades.

Next to him, Felix nods. He always seems to know everything.

Minho scowls.

“It’s like Seungmin said. You isolate yourself, and then act surprised when you realize just how connected we all are,” Minho reminds him, folding his arms across his chest. 

_Seungmin must be friends with Minho as well_ , Jisung realizes, maybe a little too late to make a difference. Still, a flash of irritation runs down his spine. 

It’s not his fault he was more focused on fighting, or that he didn’t realize everyone relied on each other. That they’re connected to each other in ways Jisung has never understood, or noticed.

“It wasn’t purposeful,” Jisung snaps, finally dropping his bag to the ground with a dull _thud_. Minho side eyes him, but Jisung is unwavering, refusing to give in. He’s awfully tired of it all.

“I didn’t realize how close everyone was. Changbin-hyung is the one who arranged our training sessions, not me. Blame him,” Jisung continues, and he unzips his bag open, reaching for a roll of tape. 

Minho purses his lips.

He does his left hand first. It’s natural, now, the way the tape fits against his skin. He moves on to his right hand soon enough. It’s relaxing.

Nearby, Minho is quiet. Either he doesn’t have the energy to continue speaking to him, or Jisung had hit a nerve. It’s probably the latter. Jisung’s always been good at that.

Felix clears his throat awkwardly, and Jisung turns to the spare punching bag. Next to him, he realizes Chan and Hyunjin have fallen quiet.

“What? Is there something you have to say too?” Jisung asks, and his voice is tired, exhaustion easily slipping through the cracks. He is very well aware of his mistakes. Having the other fighters constantly scrutinize him only worsens things.

Hyunjin opens his mouth, surely to answer his question, but Chan tugs on his arm before he can say anything.

“Not worth it.”

Jisung clenches his jaw, the words echoing through his mind, pressing into him.

 _Not worth it_. His fist throbs when it hits the outer layer of leather. He should’ve worn gloves again, but it’s too late now. He might as well take the risk.

He can feel Hyunjin’s eyes on him.

“Careful. You might wanna use gloves instead of going in bare,” Hyunjin says, right as Jisung lands another punch. He glowers at the bag, wishing his hand wasn’t hurting from the impact. Hyunjin’s right, as much as he hates to admit it.

His hands fall back to his sides. 

Hyunjin doesn’t say anything else, just scoops his bag up from the ground. Chan waits for him, off to the side, and Jisung forces himself to look away. Otherwise, he’d say something he regrets.

Next to him, Felix nudges his shoulder. 

“Well? Are you here to box or what?”

Jisung raises his hands, ignoring the pulse of pain rhythmically pounding against his skin.

Minho smiles, and for a split second, Jisung thinks they’re finally making progress.

“He’s more than welcome to box across the room,” Minho says, still smiling.

Jisung deflates, but he is not surprised. 

Changbin is still hurting, and Minho is well aware of the fact. 

—

“How do you know Seungmin?” Jisung questions, later that day. Felix promised to take him out to eat after training, and he’s currently fulfilling that promise. The restaurant is crowded, voices overlapping and blending together, but Felix’s voice is as clear as ever. That’s the thing about Felix. He never fails to stand out, even in a room full of people.

Turns out he’s not so bad after all. 

Jisung admires him for it, even if he’d never admit it.

“Minho asked him to be my partner in my first practice match, so I could prepare for the real thing, and he was nice enough to agree,” Felix explains, and his eyes never leave Jisung’s face. It’s eerie, how easily he reads people with just one glance. 

Jisung forces a nod, but there are still questions floating around in his head. 

Across from him, Felix sighs resignedly. He catches on to everything, apparently. Jisung still isn’t used to it, even after all this time. 

“Go on. Spit it out.” 

“You guys just seemed really comfortable with each other the other day,” Jisung shrugs. He’s not sure where he’s going with this, but the tips of Felix’s ears are turning red, and he knows he’s getting quite close to something.

“Oh. I ran into him at work a while back, and we got to talking,” Felix admits.

Jisung narrows his eyes, realization gnawing at him.

“He works in insurance? With _us_?” He hisses. Felix drums his fingertips against the edge of the table, restless with energy. They’d stuck around in the training room for as long as possible, but Felix has much more pent up energy than Jisung could’ve ever imagined.

“Not really. You know that building across from ours? The fancy one? That’s where Seungmin works,” Felix explains, and his fingers stretch along the table, moving towards his drink. Jisung watches him down it, trying to remember what company resides within that specific building.

It takes a moment for it to click into place.

“Oh, fuck. He’s a lawyer,” Jisung realizes. Across from him, Felix reluctantly nods.

“A lawyer with somewhat dubious morality,” He jokes, and there it is, the unspoken question of whether or not Seungmin is _really_ there for boxing.

Felix stares at him like he knows it’s coming, but Jisung doesn’t ask. It’s better not to. If Felix trusts Seungmin, then he should too.

Instead, he raises his glass towards Felix.

“Well, I hope whatever’s going on between the two of you works out.”

Felix flushes under the yellow lighting of the restaurant, but doesn’t say anything. He raises his own glass, lightly clinking it against the one Jisung’s holding. 

“Me too,” Felix sighs.

—

The next time Jisung goes to the club, it’s not to fight.

It’s to talk to Woojin. He doesn’t have a set work schedule, but Jisung knows from previous experiences that he spends most of his time there, so he takes his chances.

When he walks in, Hyunjin is behind the bar. Sitting on one of the stools is Chan, and whatever conversation they were immersed in is broken off by Jisung’s appearance.

“Sorry. Just looking for someone,” Jisung admits, and he prays neither of them ask who he’s here for. They’d never let him get past if they knew.

Hyunjin sighs, waving him along with feigned ignorance, thankfully. Jisung strides across the room quickly, deciding to take his chances in the training room. He’s found him there before, so maybe he’ll get lucky this time.

Surely enough, he finds Woojin by the punching bags, which seem to be his favorite way to train. 

It takes a few seconds for Woojin to realize Jisung’s standing across the room. When he does, he lets his arms fall to his sides, and the leather skinned bag swings from his earlier punches, slowly coming to a stop. 

When he steps out from behind the bag, Jisung immediately notices that he’s wearing gauze this time, which is relieving. At least his knuckles won’t split open. Not yet, anyways. Jisung’s learned that if he goes too hard that it happens anyways, gauze or not.

“Oh. Jisung.” Woojin sounds almost surprised, like he wasn’t expecting to see him here. He probably thought Jisung was sticking to his normal training schedule, where he would come in on weekends during the earlier hours, but he couldn’t sleep.

Neither can Woojin, apparently. Sunday’s are supposed to be his day off.

“Hi,” Jisung says, trying to appear nonchalant. He wonders if it’s too soon to try for a smile. The thought leaves his mind when Woojin bends down to grab his bag. He loops his shirt around his neck, still leaving him shirtless, and Jisung forces himself to redirect his attention elsewhere.

“I was just about to leave,” Woojin tells him, clearing his throat awkwardly. A flare of panic rushes through Jisung. He hasn’t even had the chance to say anything yet.

Woojin starts moving, and Jisung takes that as his cue.

“Is it okay if we talk?” Jisung blurts out, and it’s enough to get Woojin to pause.

“About what?” Woojin asks. He seems restless, like he’s itching for this conversation to be over. The realization is painful in ways Jisung couldn’t have imagined. Woojin was never like this before.

“I don’t know. Everything, I guess.” Jisung’s voice is surprisingly steady, leaving him feeling impressed with himself.

Woojin stares for a long moment. It seems like ages pass before he nods, dipping his chin down. Jisung can’t remember the last time he was so relieved.

—

Woojin’s apartment is surprisingly comfortable. Not too big, but not too small either. Jisung can see photo frames filled with unfamiliar faces on the wall of the living room, and he wonders where Woojin’s family is. He doesn’t talk about them often, and it eats away at Jisung’s mind sometimes.

“You can sit down,” Woojin reminds him, his voice cutting through Jisung’s thoughts. He tears his gaze away from the photos on the wall, walking over to the couch.

Woojin disappears down the hallway, training bag in tow. Jisung wishes that he knew why Woojin had picked up boxing again, especially considering exercise is his outlet. He’s too scared to ask, but that isn’t surprising. 

Jisung isn’t sure how much time passes before Woojin returns with a new set of clothes and a determined expression on his face, so unlike the one from earlier.

Something’s changed in the short interval between the walk to Woojin’s building and him leaving the room to go change. Woojin leans back onto the spine of the couch comfortably, and looks over at Jisung expectantly. Like he’s waiting for something.

“I thought you didn’t box,” Jisung finally says, breaking the silence between them. It’s not an ideal conversation starter, but he’s gained his footing, the same way a baby lamb does after birth, and there’s no losing it now, when he’s already gotten this far.

“I don’t. Working out just wasn’t enough today. Work has been stressing me out,” Woojin slowly responds, and Jisung finds himself feeling brave enough to meet his eyes.

“Oh. Sorry about that,” Jisung mumbles, looking away when Woojin glances over at him, curious. Part of him wants to ask what could possibly be going on with the club to stress him out so much—to the point of doing something he almost never does—but it’s not his place. Jisung knows that much.

Woojin shrugs in response, and his gaze is fairly neutral. _Hard to read_ , Jisung realizes. _Like a closed book_. 

They’re back where they started.

“It’s quite alright. No need to apologize.”

Jisung nods awkwardly, suddenly unsure of how to continue. Conversations are usually easy for him. A joke or two, and it’s enough to put him in familiar, comfortable territory. Mess that up, and he’s teetering around like a newborn, clumsily trying to find his bearings before making it even worse.

It’s nothing like in the books or movies. The words itch at the inner lining of his throat, trying to claw their way out, but Jisung _can’t_. He can’t bring himself to say anything. Part of it is due to shame. Shame that he even hurt Woojin in the first place. Shame stemming from the fact that he doesn’t think he deserves to be here right now, apologizing. Woojin shouldn’t be speaking to him, or inviting him into his apartment.

It’s more complicated. Jisung feels as if a category 5 hurricane is raging within him, mercilessly tearing at his bones and organs. There’s no other way to describe it.

Jisung doesn’t know how long he sits there, hands clenching and slowly unclenching. He doesn’t register the tears slipping down his face until Woojin shifts in his spot, carefully asking, “Jisung? Hey. Are you okay?” in a soft voice. Concern carves Woojin’s features, shaping and molding them. 

Jisung feels sick with himself.

He shakes his head, and Woojin moves to cradle him in his arms, like it’s a natural instinct. Head tucked against Woojin’s chest, and he can’t remember the last time they were this close, and the contact makes it worse because Jisung _knows_ he doesn’t deserve to be comforted, especially not by Woojin.

Still, he shifts his head upwards and into the junction of Woojin’s shoulder and neck, riding out his sobs as quietly as possible. Woojin’s hand is smoothing down his hair, reassuring and gentle. It’s not _right_. It’s not right that Jisung came here to apologize and ended up ruining it instead.

Unsurprisingly, Woojin doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to, because the feeling of his fingers brushing through the strands of Jisung’s hair says more than enough. _You’re okay_. Fingers scratch their way across his scalp lightly, reminding him of Woojin’s overwhelming presence. _I’m here for you_. 

Jisung’s breath rattles in his rib cage, unsteady and loud.

He doesn’t know how long it takes for the hurricane inside of him to settle down, or reach the eye of the storm. _The calmest part_ , Jisung thinks. _Right before the worst of it hits_.

When his tears subside, Woojin’s hand moves towards his cheek.

“Hey. It’s okay,” Woojin says, and Jisung finally works up the courage to meet his gaze. It takes everything inside of him to not start crying again at the endless amounts of affection in Woojin’s eyes, even after everything that had happened between them.

“I’m sorry, Jisung. I shouldn’t have pushed you to come back. It wasn’t my place,” Woojin continues. Something in his expression changes, and Jisung’s withdrawing from the shell he had created to protect himself earlier, reaching to cover Woojin’s hand with his own.

“You shouldn’t be apologizing. I’m the one who came here to apologize. You don’t owe me anything,” Jisung admits, and his voice is just barely a ghost of a whisper. If Woojin has to strain to hear his words, he doesn’t show it. 

Jisung moves Woojin’s hand away with his own, letting it fall back onto his lap. Jisung withdraws his own hand almost immediately afterwards, feeling guilty. It’s eating him alive in ways that he can’t explain.

It has been for a while now.

“I think we both made mistakes, Jisung,” Woojin comments, and it’s enough to anchor him back into the real world. Woojin has that sort of impact on him. Jisung constantly feels like he’s floating aimlessly, drifting between the real world and his mind, but Woojin’s always been able to ground him.

“I made a worse one,” Jisung says, squeezing his eyes shut out of pure guilt.

Woojin sighs, and Jisung just barely registers the fingertip tracing along the curve of his cheek yet again.

“Look at me. Please,” Woojin says, softly. Jisung cracks his eyes open, waiting.

Woojin smiles, and it’s so comforting. It leaves Jisung feeling warm.

“It’s not a competition of who hurt who more. It’s about recognizing what we did, and owning up to our actions. I pushed you in ways that I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry for it,” Woojin continues, his fingers falling from Jisung’s cheek.

Jisung reaches out for his hand before he can even think about it, twisting their fingers together. It feels right, to have Woojin’s hand in his.

“Hyung,” He says, trying to ignore the way his voice cracks. Woojin is looking down at the couch now. “It’s okay. Really. You just wanted to help, and I didn’t realize it.”

Woojin’s thumbs ghosts over the top of Jisung’s knuckles, light and just barely there, but enough to ease Jisung’s nerves. When he looks back up, his eyes are shiny.

Jisung’s never seen Woojin cry, not even when he was in the hospital. 

“You never cry,” Jisung sniffles, trying to hold back his own tears, and it’s enough for a smile to crack its way through Woojin’s face.

“I don’t,” Woojin agrees, lifting his free hand to wipe at his cheeks. 

Jisung thinks his heart might shatter at the sight. Fold in on itself like a dilapidated old building, and crush him in the meanwhile.

Then, Woojin is brushing away his tears, and suddenly the weight of his heart breaking isn’t so heavy. Jisung feels like he can breathe again.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” He croaks out, and there’s no stopping the tears now. He wishes he could say more, give Woojin the apology he deserves, but his life isn’t a picture perfect movie. He doesn’t have everything planned out for him. This is real life, and his words _fail_ him in real life, leaving him with pent up regrets and pity.

“I knew. I _knew_ , and I still kissed him. I still did that to you,” Jisung continues, slight hiccups shamefully cutting through his words. 

Woojin studies his expression carefully, almost as if he’s waiting for something. Jisung chews on the inside of his cheek nervously, unsure of how to continue.

“You were upset. I never told you about my feelings, either,” Woojin says, gently. 

Jisung blinks once. Twice, and anger bubbles over deep within him. _He’s understanding to a fault_ , Jisung thinks. It’s painful.

“That doesn’t excuse it. I still noticed,” Jisung protests, maybe a little too loudly. He’s always been too loud, to the point where it became unnerving for other people.

“It helped me understand,” Woojin points out, his voice just as gentle as before. “I’ve had a lot of time to think, you know. Believe me when I say that I was upset, but time made me realize that you were hurting.”

Jisung stays silent, unsure of how to respond. He hadn’t been expecting this in all of the outcomes and scenarios he’d imagined on his way here.

“I shouldn’t have done it. Upset or not,” Jisung finally responds.

Across from him, Woojin smiles. It surprises Jisung, considering the fact that he had spent the duration of the walk to Woojin’s apartment mourning what would happen between the two of them. None of his thoughts involved Woojin smiling at him.

“I think we can work past it,” He admits.

Jisung pushes down a smile, not allowing himself to get his hopes up just yet.

It’s hard not to though, considering how warm Woojin’s hand feels in his, and how he’s looking at Jisung like he’s the only person worth looking at right now. 

“I want to,” Jisung says. “Work past it, I mean.” His voice is rough, strangely grating against his throat and then his tongue, but the words squirm their way out regardless, and he knows there’s no turning back from here.

Woojin nods at his words, and his expression turns serious for a second. Jisung stiffens immediately, wondering if he had done something wrong.

“While we’re talking, I want to apologize for my friends. Hyunjin, specifically. He can be a little too protective sometimes,” Woojin confesses, and he drops Jisung’s hand. He wipes his palms on the front of his jeans, nervousness taking over in the form of hunched shoulders and drawn together eyebrows.

Jisung shrugs a little, unsure of what to say in response. On one hand, he was lucky Hyunjin hadn’t done anything more than the occasional remark, but on the other hand, it still stung deep within him.

He takes a deep breath, and squares his shoulders, like he’s preparing himself for what he’s about to say.

“It’s okay. I honestly had that coming,” He admits, a little too quietly for his liking. “It obviously hurt, but he had every right to defend you.”

Woojin toys with the ring on his finger, sliding and twisting it around the bone of knuckle. He grows silent for a long moment. Jisung doesn’t mind, opting to embrace it instead. 

He’s spent too much time being wary of the stretches of quiet in his life, too much time spent overcompensating by filling the space with meaningless chatter and empty words.

This time is different. It’s different because of _Woojin._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good. Otherwise I would’ve been forced to kick your ass,” Minho says. His eyes flicker up to Jisung’s, who doesn’t say anything, heartbeat pounding obnoxiously loud in his throat and unnerving him.
> 
> “And,” Minho pauses, full on smiling now, “I don’t think that you would’ve wanted that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehe this chapter is a little bit longer!! i was gonna leave the last scene for the next chapter but i added it in last minute (as in this morning because i procrastinate like its my job)
> 
> i am gonna try to update next week but i will be on vacation so idk if ill have the time but i will try my hardest anyways!! ive been excited to write the next chapter for like. weeks now 
> 
> as always please leave a kudos/comment if u liked it!! <3 
> 
> ALSO i made a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/anelaabasic/playlist/58aZxM6uBL98LJPaaZ5kfZ?si=bRJNUAskR6KHvGUFJdajzg) for this fic :p some of the songs are from my (quite mediocre) music taste but i added others based on some oomfs recommendations (<3) n its still ongoing i will add more songs with time if anyone would like to listen

“Changbin-hyung is next. I hope you know that,” Felix comments, seemingly out of nowhere, and Jisung drops the pen he’d been balancing across his knuckles purely out of boredom. 

He’s found it hard to focus lately, with everything that’s been going on. He ducks under his desk to grab the pen, fingers twisting and grabbing until he can feel the familiar length of it.

Truth is indeed a bitter pill to swallow. Jisung’s learned that the hard way. He hopes it’s enough to develop an aversion to the taste, to better himself and learn from this.

He wishes it was as easy as that.

“Next?” Jisung questions, wincing when his head connects with the unforgiving wooden surface. He clutches at it, muttering a betrayed, “Ouch,” under his breath as he straightens back up in his chair.

From his desk, Felix sighs. He looks up from his paperwork with a tired glance, like Jisung should _know_ what he means.

“You have to talk to him eventually. Minho-hyung says that he hasn’t shown up to train for weeks now. He’s hurting, Jisung,” Felix reminds him, and his voice is all the right blend of sharpness and understanding. 

That much, Jisung knows. He knows that Felix is right, and that he’s let Changbin hurt for too long.

“I will.” 

A poor promise, but a promise. 

Now it’s just a matter of fulfilling it, and staying true to his word.

—

“Do you happen to know where Changbin lives? I’m afraid Minho’s gonna punch me if I ask him, and it’s about time I spoke to him,” Jisung confesses, rocking back on his heels nervously. 

An elevator ride has never felt so long, and he can’t bring himself to meet Woojin’s eyes, ashamed of what he’s asking. It’s like pouring salt in an open wound, but he grits his teeth.

Felix was right. He needs to do this.

“I’m sorry for asking you, by the way. I know it must be weird,” He adds, because there’s this weird, innate urge inside of him that says he should. Probably his conscience, and he wonders where it was when he kissed Changbin. 

After spending an unnecessary time thinking about it, Jisung had figured that asking Woojin was his safest option. It didn’t stop the guilt from tearing its way through him. 

That’s the thing about guilt. It doesn’t recognize safe options, or good intentions. Only clear as day mistakes.

“Yeah. I’ve been there a couple of times,” Woojin finally answers, but it’s reserved. Borderline cautious, and so unlike the other times they’ve spoken to each other. Jisung knows that he should’ve expected it, but the surprise is just as great as he suspected it would be. 

Woojin isn’t the same around him anymore, not even after talking everything through.

These things take time, though, and Jisung’s more than willing to give Woojin exactly that.

“I can walk you there, if you want,” Woojin offers uneasily, surely trying to bridge the silence between them. Jisung isn’t sure if Woojin is experiencing the same sort of awkwardness that he is.

“You don’t have to do that. Seriously,” Jisung protests. Fingernails dig into the lines of his palm, and he’s worried that he might accidentally draw blood. He hasn’t done that for ages now, but he’s been full of surprises lately.

Maybe asking Woojin was a mistake. Maybe it’s too soon, because Jisung knows that some wounds take more time to heal than others and it’s only been a few days since they talked everything through. Maybe he’s pushing the limits of their barely re-constructed relationship.

“His place is pretty close to where I live, so it’s on my way,” Woojin explains, and Jisung’s fingertips slip away from his palm. The skin is reddening from the previous tension, but nothing more.

 _Good_ , Jisung thinks. He can’t afford to sustain any injuries (minor or not) right now, especially to his hands.

The elevator doors open with a cheerful _ding_ , and Jisung is reminded of when he and Woojin first met all those months ago.

They separate paths at the same crosslight, like always. Woojin leaves Jisung with an address and something close to a smile. Not quite, but almost.

Jisung sighs, content with how everything turned out. 

_Progress_ , he thinks, and he allows himself a brief moment of happiness as he makes his way down the street, towards Changbin.

—

Changbin doesn’t open the door, and Jisung’s flare of happiness burns out as quickly as it had appeared.

“It’s me,” Jisung says through the wooden panels, hoping it’s enough to coax him out of the confines of his apartment.

Instead, he’s met with a heavy, dreadful silence. Panic seeps into Jisung’s lungs, traveling to his heart. His arteries and veins are next, and Jisung knows he’ll lose his courage if he lets his worries get that far, so he rolls his shoulders back and knocks on the door with purpose. 

In other words, harder than the first time.

“Changbin, please. I just wanna talk,” He tries again, desperate, and his heart jumps at the sound of the lock clicking out of place. Finally. The panic inside of him slows its path, turning into background noise. It’s still there though, lingering and waiting for the first sign that things are going bad.

When the door swings open, Jisung blinks. Once, twice, and lets the dread slowly settle in, followed by a rush of panic. 

Minho stands in front of him, one eyebrow perfectly arched in the kind of way that terrifies Jisung. He’s wearing a black shirt, the kind that’s faded enough for it to look more grey than anything, and it’s rumpled in the weirdest of places, like the edge of the collar and near the sleeve. His hair sticks out unnaturally, and Jisung wonders if he’d woken him.

 _Them_. Minho wouldn’t show up to Changbin’s place just to sleep, and certainly not alone. Unless he’s misreading the situation. Jisung tends to do that a lot, so he can never tell.

Jisung doesn’t know what to say. He hates this, how he finds himself without anything to say when he’s always been a natural born talker. No matter what, he’s always seemed to know exactly what to say.

Right now, however, words fail him. He’s growing accustomed to the foreign feeling, as much as he wants to forget it.

“Changbin’s busy,” Minho says, voice as even and smooth as always. He leans his shoulder against the door, listening to the way it protests under his weight. Jisung is still standing there, contemplating on what to do or say.

“I don’t care. I want to talk to him,” Jisung forces out, clearing his throat so his next words can come a little easier. “I _need_ to talk to him.” 

Minho’s expression wavers the same way water ripples across a lake, and Jisung wonders if he’s finally gotten through to him, through the barrier he’s built around himself. Minho’s always felt untouchable to him for some reason.

“Have you ever considered that maybe he doesn’t want to talk? That maybe it’d hurt too much?” Minho asks, but there’s no anger in his voice. He sounds terribly tired, as if all the energy had been drained out of him. His shoulders curl forward, and Jisung briefly wonders if there’s something he doesn’t know.

Jisung hesitates before responding, tip toeing around the conversation like he’s walking on glass.

Then, “Are you okay?”

Minho sighs. Jisung’s expecting a snarky comment, or for him to put up that impenetrable barrier back up, the one he hides behind when he tells Jisung to box elsewhere or that _he’s_ the one isolating himself from the rest of the fighters.

“It doesn’t matter,” Minho answers, and there it is. 

Jisung opens his mouth to respond, a waterfall of words brimming at his lips, but Minho turns his head around when he hears the sound of movement coming from behind him, and Jisung forgets everything.

 _Changbin_ , he thinks.

He can hear Minho whispering something, but only catches the sound of his name, followed by their muffled talking. There’s a pause, and his name is repeated again, but by a rougher voice. _Changbin_.

And then the strangest thing happens. Minho turns around to open the door wider, and steps to the side.

The first thing Jisung notices is Changbin standing behind Minho.

Jisung doesn’t know why he assumed that he’d look disheveled. Changbin is anything _but_ that. In fact, he’s the exact opposite. Clean shaven and shirt tucked smoothly into his pants. Hair pressed against his forehead like always, and Jisung is oddly reassured by the sight.

He’s reassured because Changbin looks okay. Maybe that means they’ll be okay, too.

“I heard you wanted to talk to me,” Changbin says. Jisung jerks his head into a nod, trying to smile. It’s harder than he thought it would be.

Minho’s glancing at him warily from off to the side, but shows no dissent when Jisung walks through the door frame, towards Changbin, who’s already started back towards the living room. 

Jisung moves after him, but Minho’s hand wraps around the sleeve of his suit jacket. He leans in, towards his ear, and whispers, “It better go well.”

It’s quiet enough that it slips by Changbin unnoticed, which frustrates Jisung all the more.

He pulls away from Minho’s touch, trying not to appear aggravated. Still, anger rises within him, crashing the way waves do during a storm, and Jisung tries his hardest to reel it in, before anyone gets hurt.

It’s hard, though. Jisung thinks he might drown if he continues struggling, so he gives up. Lets the feeling wash over, and remembers all of the comments Minho had sent his way.

“Can you back off? Just this once?” Jisung snaps, taking a careful step away from Minho, who seems to be surprised by his small outburst. Jisung’s chest heaves with anger, a storm inside of his body.

“I understand that you guys are friends and all, but there’s no need to constantly remind me of my mistakes, or tell me that things had better go well, as if I can control how Changbin-hyung is gonna react. That’s not fair.” 

Jisung’s words are hurtful. He knows this. That’s why Minho breaks with each one that slips from his mouth, but he doesn’t back down. He’s bitten his tongue for far too long.

“I’m here, trying to talk to him and make things better. Isn’t that enough for you to lay off? I know you’re his friend, but I’m sure he can make decisions for himself.”

In the end, there’s a long, terrible silence. Eventually, Changbin clears his throat from behind them and the moment is broken. Minho snaps out of it, squaring his shoulders and trying to muster a neutral expression. Jisung can see the way his bottom lip shakes and how his hands curl up protectively from his sides.

“You’re right. Changbin and I _are_ friends,” Minho says, a close-lipped smile on his face as he reaches for the door. “That’s all we’ll ever be,” Minho continues, quietly enough so Changbin doesn’t hear, and his smile twists into a sad one as he slips outside. 

_An explanation_ , Jisung realizes. That’s what Minho has given him in response to his outburst.

It’s unsettling, and Jisung almost shatters from the depth of his mistake, but Minho’s long gone before he can say anything of substance, as always.

—

Jisung sits on the smaller couch that’s opposite of Changbin’s, twisting his fingers nervously. The leather material underneath him sticks to his suit, making him shift in his seat uncomfortably. 

He hates leather, but he hates prolonged silences even more. They seem like such a waste to him, nothing more than empty space waiting to be filled with words and endless stories, sort of the same concept as a blank canvas and paints.

Changbin doesn’t say anything for what feels like ages, so Jisung figures he should be the first to speak. It itches at him, persistent and gnawing.

“I should’ve come sooner. I know it must’ve been hard for you all this time,” He confesses. Fingers anxiously tap against the scratchy material of his jeans, wandering up and down nervously, and he’s beginning to regret this. Owning up to his mistakes is harder than it looks.

Changbin sighs, so softly that Jisung wonders if he’d imagined it.

“You shouldn’t have said all that to Minho-hyung earlier,” Changbin scolds instead, but there’s no anger backing it. Where anger lacks, sadness and fatigue fill the empty space. Jisung’s heart aches. 

Jisung stares at the ground, unsure of how to respond. There’s no doubt that he’d been a little too harsh with him, more so than necessary.

“I’ll talk to him about it later,” Jisung finally says, knowing it wouldn’t fair of him to ignore the problem.

Changbin hums in response, but other than that, Jisung can’t read his expression. He’s disappointed, even though it was exactly what he expected from him.

There’s no way Changbin could possibly be open towards him right now, because that sort of vulnerability carries a form of trust Jisung doesn’t deserve. Jisung knows this. He’d ruined that trust the second he let himself get carried away when they kissed. 

“Do you think we could ever go back? To the way we were before?” Jisung asks. It’s a loaded question, and it’s not fair either, for him to want such a thing when he hasn’t even apologized.

Jisung regrets the question.

Changbin is silent for a long, uncomfortable amount of time. Long enough for Jisung to squirm in his seat and wonder the exact depth of Changbin’s feelings for him. Part of him had hoped that they were shallow, which would make repairing their friendship all the easier.

But that was just Jisung looking for the easy way out. Looking to run and cave in to selfish tendencies, and like Felix said, he can’t keep doing that.

“I don’t know, Jisung. I’m kinda embarrassed by this whole situation. Part of me genuinely believed you liked me, even though I knew you didn’t,” Changbin finally admits, and his voice is so quiet, something he would’ve never expected from him. He doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t have to explain. Jisung understands well enough.

“There’s no reason to be embarrassed.” Jisung’s own voice is outright loud in comparison, as if it’s trying to make up for Changbin’s lack of volume.

“That’s easy for you to say. Woojin-hyung actually likes _you_. I have to learn to get over you before it’s too late,” Changbin responds, but there’s no bitterness in his voice, no traces of anger or anything otherwise negative. His tone is light, bordering on amused, actually, and nothing like what Jisung was expecting.

He’s surprised by Changbin’s forefrontness. He hadn’t considered Woojin’s feelings for him in a long time, too preoccupied by the shame and guilt accompanying his actions to dwell on it long enough.

“I’m not too sure about Woojin-hyung,” Jisung mutters, and it’s _true_. Whatever Woojin may have felt for him is sure to have changed after everything that happened. There’s no doubt about it in his mind. Whether it was for better or for worse, he isn’t sure.

Changbin stares at him curiously, eyebrows slanting together and lips turning up into a smile, but he doesn’t press the matter. Jisung’s glad. It’s not what he came here to talk about, anyways.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” Jisung says eventually, and it tears at him. Shreds its way through his chest and throat, and _that’s_ how he knows it’s genuine. If it was painless, then he wouldn’t be doing it right. So, he welcomes the feeling, trying his hardest to push past it.

“What I did was wrong. I can’t even begin to imagine how it must’ve made you feel, especially since I don’t have any romantic feelings towards you and I never did. For that, I’m sorry.” Jisung’s voice falls to just above a whisper as he speaks, but he maintains his gaze with Changbin’s, refusing to look away.

No matter what, Jisung owes him at least that much.

Another painful silence. It’s almost unbearable, pressing and folding into Jisung from every way possible. He doesn’t push Changbin to talk. It wouldn’t be fair of him, so he waits.

Finally, Changbin nods.

“You’ve changed,” He comments, and Jisung flushes. He can’t tell if Changbin means it in a good way. 

He doesn’t bother asking. It’s not important right now.

“I’m sorry,” Jisung repeats, as if saying it again will cement it into his memory. Make everything okay.

It won’t, but he doesn’t know how else to express himself. How to make his remorse clear. Only time will tell if he’s changed, and for that to happen, Changbin has to be willing to trust him.

The thought is daunting, but Jisung eagerly accepts it. 

Changbin manages a smile, the first one Jisung has gotten from him in weeks, but he doesn’t say anything.

His silence is unnerving, but expected, of course.

—

It takes him too long to find Minho, seeing as they don’t formally know each other, but he eventually stumbles across him in the training room, of all places.

He should’ve looked here first, all things considered.

It’s surprisingly empty, save for Minho, reminding Jisung of all the times he’d come here to practice with Changbin. The memories calm him, and make approaching Minho a little bit easier.

“I didn’t know,” Jisung finally says, and it’s too _quiet_. Minho doesn’t stop, fists hitting the leather harder and harder with every punch. The robotic motions of his hand fill Jisung with a fear that gnaws at his insides, and the sound echoes too loudly through the training room.

Eventually, Jisung reaches out with his hand, forcing the bag to stop swaying backwards. Minho grunts out of frustration, and swings yet again, clearly undeterred. Jisung manages to hold his own despite that, and for a second, all he hears is the sound of Minho’s heavy breathing, mixed in with his own drawn out, rattling breaths. 

They stare at each other silently. Minho’s bound hands are still curled into fists, and hang dangerously by his side instead. Jisung lets go of the punching bag, hoping Minho won’t take it as an excuse to start back up again.

Minho doesn’t move, even as Jisung steps back from it. He’s relieved.

Then, finally, “I’m sorry.”

Minho’s fingers rip at the tape of his hands, but he doesn’t say anything, or acknowledge his apology. The words are all too familiar to Jisung now. 

Minho refuses to meet Jisung’s eyes, instead choosing to occupy himself with the task at hand.

It bugs Jisung, but he doesn’t comment on it. There’s no point in adding fuel to the fire.

“How long?” Jisung asks, trying to fill the silence, but it only seems to anger Minho further. His head whips back up, glaring at him.

Jisung takes a step backwards, holding his hands up warily. He hadn’t meant to cause offense, but it’s clearly a touchy subject.

“What do you care?” Minho retorts hotly. Jisung’s eyes flicker over to his hands, noticing the way they’re shaking. _He’s never told anyone_ , Jisung realizes. 

He wonders what it’s like, to harbor those feelings without ever expressing them, without daring to tell anyone. At least Jisung has Felix to talk to, but Minho can’t go to Changbin, not without telling him the root cause of his feelings. 

The thought saddens him, and Jisung thinks he’s beginning to understand Minho a little more.

After all, it explains so much. Why Minho was upset after what happened between Jisung and Changbin. Why he insisted on treating Jisung the way he did. Jisung isn’t sure how he didn’t manage to put the pieces together earlier.

“Changbin’s the one who taught me how to fight when I needed it the most,” Minho begins, and his voice has taken on a softer edge to it, fluttering through the otherwise empty room. 

Jisung knows this. Woojin had told him, back when he was new to everything. 

For once in his life, he chooses to remain silent. A small voice in the back of his head tells him that sometimes it’s better to listen, and he decides to walk down that road for a change.

“I didn’t know much about fighting. Just that I wanted to learn,” Minho admits, quieter than he was earlier. “But he took me in, despite being younger than me. At first I thought it was admiration. That he was just cool. Someone I wanted to be.”

“You know how it is. Trainers are mentors to fighters. People you look up to,” Minho continues. When Jisung looks at him, his eyes are closed, chest moving shallowly.

Jisung knows. He understands, but only to a certain extent. His affection towards Changbin falls far from anything romantic, but he’s always looked up to him in ways he can’t explain.

“Changbin’s more than that, though. He let me crash at his place when I needed it. No questions asked. He became a shoulder for me to cry on. Someone I could trust, and not just as a trainee.” Minho slowly blinks open his eyes, and Jisung hurries to muster up a smile, trying to appear comforting.

“We became friends. I mean, everyone here is friends, clearly. We all know each other and we hang out, but it feels _different_ with him.”

Minho meets his gaze once more and sighs, biting at his lip nervously.

“I fell in love with him, eventually. I don’t know how or when. It’s just _part_ of me now, this feeling. It follows me everywhere,” Minho admits. He can’t seem to look at Jisung anymore.

Jisung’s heart aches. This entire time, Minho had been hurting. Not just for Changbin, but for himself too.

“That’s why I was so harsh with you. Not just because of my feelings, but also because Changbin is important to me.” His words are more reserved now, clipped at the edges and directed straight towards Jisung.

“I’m sorry. I truly am. Changbin-hyung obviously means _so_ , so much to you, and I just,” Jisung pauses, trying to string together words in an attempt to get his thoughts across.

He gives up soon enough, taking in a deep breath. No point in overthinking it. He might as well speak truthfully. Minho deserves that much, at least.

“You have every right to be upset with me,” He says, quietly enough that Minho leans forward, straining to catch his words.

Surprisingly, Minho’s face softens.

“If I’m being honest, I was more upset with _myself_ than anything, for falling in love with him in the first place. You just happened to be the guy who fucked up by kissing him,” Minho admits, quite bluntly.

Jisung winces.

But that’s just Minho. He doesn’t hold back, and it’s also something Jisung unconsciously admires about him. 

“That doesn’t matter. What I did was wrong, and it won’t happen again,” Jisung continues, and he hopes Minho can hear the truthfulness in his tone.

“You’re pretty ballsy. Apologizing to me after what you said earlier,” Minho comments, rubbing his hands together. _They must be sore_ , Jisung thinks. He’d been going at it hard when Jisung first walked inside, probably a little too hard. 

“I got fed up,” Jisung admits. No excuses or long-winded explanations, but straight to the point instead.

A smile, surprisingly, pushes alongside Minho’s face.

“I thought you would lose your temper earlier, if I’m being honest. I was surprised when you didn’t,” Minho tells him, and he doesn’t appear as upset as Jisung had assumed he would be.

Internally, Jisung admonishes himself for thinking he knows Minho. He doesn’t know him or the other fighters. They’d all been right about that, but Seungmin especially. 

“I had it coming. All of it,” Jisung responds. Minho nods, and Jisung thinks that he’s exhausted this conversation for today.

Minho must think otherwise, because he stays where he is, a ball of tape in the palm of his hand. He doesn’t make a move for the punching bag, which is relieving. 

Jisung’s own hands ache from all the times he’s pushed himself too hard, trying to overcome his guilt with pain. It never worked, and only ended up leaving him with countless traces of bruises and split knuckles, despite the thin layer of protection he almost always wears. Minho’s will probably look the same by the time he wakes up tomorrow.

“I’m assuming you talked everything out with Changbin earlier,” Minho points out, breaking the silence, and Jisung is quick to nod. Maybe a little too quick, but then Minho’s hiding a smile behind his hand and Jisung thinks that maybe they’ll be okay.

All of them, Minho included.

They have to be okay. Jisung’s trying his hardest to make sure of that.

“Good. Otherwise I would’ve been forced to kick your ass,” Minho says. His eyes flicker up to Jisung’s, who doesn’t say anything, heartbeat pounding obnoxiously loud in his throat and unnerving him.

“And,” Minho pauses, full on smiling now, “I don’t think that you would’ve wanted that.”

—

Jisung hovers over Woojin’s desk, taking note of the paperwork strewn across his otherwise neat desk. He must be working through lunch.

Their office is almost empty, like it usually is around this time of day, when everyone leaves behind the dreary four walls and the incessant clack of keyboards for some sunshine. Jisung almost always does the same, but he’d noticed Woojin lingering, so he told Felix to go without him this time.

“How long are you gonna stand here without saying anything?” Woojin asks, but his voice is light. Teasing, almost.

Jisung flushes.

“I didn’t wanna interrupt. You seemed like you were concentrating pretty hard,” Jisung confesses. 

Woojin doesn’t look up from his work, pen scrawling across the paper, but Jisung can see a half smile lingering on his face. He takes it as a step forward.

That’s why Jisung has the courage to reach out with his hand, enclosing it over Woojin’s fingers and halting his movements.

“Let’s eat lunch. Together,” Jisung offers, carefully.

It’s a step in the right direction, but also a risk. Jisung isn’t sure how Woojin is going to react, and it shows in the way his heartbeat rises with every passing second, waiting for him to respond.

The pen hits the desk with a small _thud_ , pulling Jisung out of his thoughts. Woojin is smiling up at him.

“Okay. Yeah,” He agrees, and Jisung reaches for the nearest chair, rolling it over so that it’s next to Woojin’s desk.

“Felix went to go get us food,” Jisung admits, figuring he might as well come clean.

Woojin looks at him, curious.

“Us? So you just assumed I’d agree?” 

Head tilts to the side as he waits, eyes searching, and Jisung suddenly remembers what it’s _really_ like to be around Woojin.

He’s missed it more than words can explain. He hadn’t realized how much he craved Woojin’s company until he was deprived of it. Being back in his presence is enough for Jisung to die a happy man.

“I hoped so, otherwise I would’ve had to eat for two,” Jisung responds, slowly, as if he’s walking on eggshells. Whatever they’ve managed to reconstruct is still fragile, and Jisung wouldn’t even begin to think of ruining it again.

He likes Woojin too much to do that.

The thought is surprising to him, and he shakes his head anxiously, trying to think about anything else. Now isn’t the time to attempt to detangle his web of feelings for Woojin. 

That can wait. Jisung isn’t ready, and he’s sure Woojin isn’t either. If he still likes him after everything, that is.

“Everything okay?” Woojin asks, softly. Jisung nods his head quickly, and cranes his neck to look for any signs of Felix. _Please_ , he thinks. Talking to Woojin isn’t as easy as it used to be, and Jisung’s instincts are failing him, leaving a long stretch of silence separating them.

Then, he hears a familiar _ding_ echo through their office, and Jisung slumps into the chair out of relief. Woojin casts him another look, curious over his reaction, but doesn’t say anything.

Jisung turns in his seat, only to spot two heads bobbing over the walls of the cubicles. One red, and one brown.

He knows who it is immediately, and Jisung suddenly understands why Felix had taken so long to get here.

They round the corner a few seconds later, carrying bags of food, and Jisung’s met with the sight of a smiling Felix. Seungmin’s trailing after him, dressed in a crisp black suit and so unlike the one or two times Jisung has seen him.

Then again, most of them, Jisung included, shed their lives (and themselves) the second they step into the ring. He never would’ve guessed Seungmin was a lawyer until he saw him outside of the club.

“I ran into Seungmin when I was coming back from the restaurant. Sorry, I hope you guys don’t mind if he joins us,” Felix apologizes, but the smile he sends Seungmin’s way is blinding and characteristic of someone very clearly in love, so Jisung lets it pass.

Besides, they’re kind of cute.

“Not at all. Here, have a seat,” Jisung offers. He reaches for another chair, and beckons for Seungmin to sit. He has to make amends with him eventually.

Seungmin stares at the empty chair for a tense moment, but chooses to sit in it eventually. Felix sits on the edge of the desk across Woojin’s own, looking between the two of them.

Jisung sighs, relieved.

“I never thought you’d accept,” He jokes, but it’s somewhere between the line that separates truth and humor, floating in the murky grey area. 

Seungmin shrugs in response, and reaches for a takeout container. Hands one to Felix, then Woojin, before turning to face Jisung. 

“I have to learn to tolerate you eventually,” He says matter-of-factly, before shoving a spoonful of rice in his mouth. 

Jisung stifles the urge to laugh, but next to him, Felix bursts into laughter. Loud, unrestrained laughter, and Jisung’s beginning to think he missed something happening between the two of them.

“By the way, I heard you pissed off Minho-hyung the other day,” Seungmin continues, once he’s finished chewing. Felix shoots him a surprised glance. Woojin doesn’t say anything, but it’s clear he’s waiting for an explanation.

“Oh. Yeah. We talked it out eventually,” Jisung explains, hoping Seungmin doesn’t question it further. He doesn’t want to put Woojin in an uncomfortable situation.

To his surprise, Seungmin nods. 

“Good. I’m glad you did, or otherwise I’d really have to hate you. It takes a lot to piss him off,” Seungmin says. There’s a teasing edge to his voice that wasn’t there before, and that’s how Jisung knows something’s shifted between them.

A few seconds pass as they eat, and then Seungmin’s changing the subject back to the upcoming match this week.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jisung notices Woojin staring at him.

“Felix, are you still fighting this week?” Woojin asks, carefully, and Jisung watches as he nods. 

Jisung hasn’t fought in a match for weeks now. It’s been itching at him, the thrill of fighting, but the scar tracing his stomach itches more.

Still, he wants to go back. He _needs_ to go back. 

It’s like Felix said. Running won’t get him anywhere.

“Do you have an opponent yet?” Jisung blurts out. Felix’s mouth falls open, and Jisung scrunches his nose in disgust when a piece of food falls out.

Felix turns red, mumbling an apology. Seungmin laughs quietly, and hands him a napkin from the table. Felix stares at it with a strange look on his face, clearly not quite comprehending Seungmin’s offer.

Seungmin sighs, as if he’s annoyed, and Jisung watches as he reaches out to wipe his mouth for him. Felix’s eyes go wide, but there’s a smile on his face.

 _They’re cute_ , Jisung thinks. _Gross, but cute_.

“Why do you ask?” Woojin questions then, interrupting Jisung’s train of thought. He zones back in, trying to remember what the conversation was.

Eventually, he shrugs.

“I wanna see what Felix is made out of,” Jisung responds.

“Like, by fighting against me? In a real, official match?” He asks excitedly, eyes lighting up. His excitement acts as a spark, and it runs through Jisung’s body, growing with every passing second.

Woojin looks at him with imploring eyes, waiting. Like it’s too good to be true, and Jisung doesn’t blame him. 

“Yeah. By fighting,” Jisung finally answers, but he’s looking at Woojin.

Felix is the first to react, pushing himself off of the desk and pulling Jisung into a hug, forcing him to redirect his attention away from Woojin. Hands ruffle his hair affectionately, and Jisung feels at home again.

If he looks past the mess of hair and Felix’s suit jacket flapping in front of him, Jisung can see Woojin smiling, bright and gentle as always.

Content floods his body, leaving him relaxed. It feels _right_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just think minbin r neat. even if they got the whole unrequited love thing going on rn but at least seunglix r cute i love seunglix


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Across from him, Changbin laughs. It’s a bitter sound. Like gravel crunching on asphalt, and Woojin has to resist the urge to cover his ears. He is not used to bitterness. Not from Changbin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> usually i just ramble in the notes (im so sorry) but i dont have much to say this time!! but i do really like this chapter :p its one of my favorites

The crowd is especially large tonight.

Woojin hadn’t realized just how much Jisung’s return was anticipated, but perhaps the line has blurred in the time he was gone and they’re here for Felix instead, who’s made quite a name for himself in the meantime.

Either way, he’s surprised.

He tries not to let it show, keeping his expression neutral for the sake of appearances. It’s not as if anyone would point it out, but Woojin figures it’s best to be cautious.

Next to him, Chan sighs quietly, just barely heard over the clamoring of the crowd. He’s dressed casually tonight, since he isn’t in charge of security. Black t-shirt and a cap. It’s normal. Familiar.

“Out of all the ways to come back, it’s in a match against one of his closest friends,” Chan observes, sounding borderline amused. 

Woojin doesn’t know how to respond. Jisung somehow always manages to surprise him at every turn possible, and he still has yet to grow used to it.

 _Elusive_. That’s the word. Jisung always manages to slip out of his fingertips before he can figure him out, or pin him down just enough to get a good sense of who he is.

“He knows Felix won’t hurt him. Not the way he was hurt before. It’s a trust thing, I think,” Woojin finally says, but it’s lost in the roar of the crowd.

Woojin frowns. He doesn’t remember the crowds being like this when his parents were still around.

He swats the memory away, annoyed for letting the thought derail so much. Usually, he’s able to keep his mind at bay, especially when it comes to his parents. He needs to be better about it.

“I think he wants to see what Felix is made out of,” Chan responds, and Woojin glances over at him, surprised. He hadn’t considered that, but it feels right, like it’s exactly what Jisung would do.

He tips his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. _Just when I thought I had him all figured out_ , he thinks. There’s no point in trying, but Woojin refuses to give up regardless.

He wants to know Jisung. It’s like an itch he can’t scratch. Fingertips brushing against the edges of it but just not close enough. Jisung always manages to slip out of his grasp before he can reach him.

His train of thought is interrupted by a particularly large swell of noise, and Woojin blinks back into focus, searching for the source of the commotion.

The match is starting.

In the ring, he first spots Jisung. Hands raised to his bare chest, and a smile on his face. His scar stands pale against his skin, and Woojin’s glad he hadn’t tried to cover it up. 

Woojin knows that’s what he would’ve done, but he is used to it. To shame, his closest companion. 

Again, Woojin reins in his thoughts. Shakes his head a little, and focuses back into the present. Chan doesn’t say anything, but Woojin knows that he noticed. Nothing ever gets past Chan. He’s too observant, too caught up in the inner workings of people’s lives.

Woojin has always admired that about him for reasons he can’t pinpoint.

The shriek of a whistle pierces through his mind, and Woojin pays careful attention to the ring. He’s curious to see who wins. 

Where Jisung leans more towards defense in his fighting style, Felix makes up for in offense. Jisung, on the other hand, has had less training time, but moves faster to make up for it. Felix has been training longer, which means sharper and better technique. 

Still, part of him hopes that Jisung wins. It’d be good for him, no matter how much he refuses to admit it. Woojin dismisses the thought. It’s never been about winning or losing for Jisung. He genuinely enjoys this, and Woojin can’t reduce that to a win or loss.

When Felix lunges forward—so quickly that Woojin barely registers the movement—a spray of blood bursts from Jisung’s nose.

Woojin looks away. He should be used to this, to the blood and gore that accompanies boxing. To the horrifying injuries he’s seen over the years, but something about seeing Jisung get hurt rips him apart. 

It’s nothing compared to watching him get _stabbed_ , but it hurts nonetheless. He dislikes it more than words could ever explain.

“It’s different when it’s someone you care about, isn’t it?” Chan asks, quietly. The question is too close to home. Woojin barely hears it over the cheering, and he’s thinking about brushing it off when Chan turns to look right at him, waiting.

Woojin stays silent, unsure of what he’s waiting for.

“Trust me. Whenever Hyunjin gets inside of the ring, there’s a part of me that almost loses it,” He admits. It’s unlike Chan. He’s always so sure of himself, of Hyunjin, but it makes Woojin feel better about his own thoughts.

“I don’t want him to run from this again if he loses. It makes him happy,” Woojin says. He looks back up to the ring, and notices the blood drying on Jisung’s skin. He shuts his eyes again.

_Why is this time so different? I’ve watched his matches before. And why did he have to go against Felix of all people?_

Woojin lifts his head back up, forcing himself to look at the ring. No point in avoiding it. He shoves his worries off to the side, determined not to let them get to him. That can wait.

Right now, he needs to focus on Jisung, no matter how painful it may be.

“It’s because you have feelings for him,” Chan says, over the roar of the crowd. He isn’t looking at Woojin, not anymore, but it’s still disconcerting. 

Woojin, again, doesn’t respond. He can’t indulge himself. They’ve just barely started making progress.

Then, the whistle blows, and Woojin startles. _The moment of truth_ , he realizes. He cranes his neck anxiously, searching for the victor. 

_Jisung, please_.

And yet, Felix is the only one left standing.

—

“You kept looking away,” Jisung says, softly, when they’re back in the locker room. Everyone’s long gone by now.

Woojin dabs at the cut on his forehead, trying to wipe off the crusted blood. He pretends to be invested in it, hoping Jisung won’t push the matter.

Warm fingers circle around his wrist, pulling his hand down and away from Jisung’s face.

“Hyung,” Jisung whispers, persistent. Woojin musters up the courage to look him in the eyes, just this once.

His forehead falls against Jisung’s, and he murmurs, “Watching you get hurt was unbelievably painful tonight,” into the empty space between them. Lets the words fill the space, and waits.

When he pulls back, Jisung’s eyelashes are wet with tears. He blinks, slowly enough for the tears to slide off and slip down his cheeks.

“You’ve watched me get hurt before,” Jisung points out, but his voice is shaking, on the verge of collapsing. Woojin swallows his unease, trying to at least maintain a calm appearance.

“Yeah. I have. I don’t know what changed,” Woojin responds, his voice thick with something he can’t identify.

Jisung looks up at him curiously, his tears drying, and Woojin knows. He knows that Jisung wants to ask.

Woojin waits, but the question never comes. Part of him is relieved—it’s too soon for him to admit it—but the other part is disappointed. Maybe he just wants reassurance that Jisung is trying to figure him out. That Woojin slips out of his grasp whenever he gets close, the way Jisung does with him.

But this is _Jisung_ , and Jisung is not Woojin. There’s no point in running in endless circles.

“You did good,” Woojin finally says, when his voice has cleared and he’s stopped shaking. It’s still weird, being around Jisung. 

So much has changed.

Jisung smiles, lips stretching and eyes bright with something Woojin can’t pinpoint.

And, yet, nothing has changed. 

“Felix is so _good_. I wasn’t surprised that he won,” Jisung admits. 

Woojin’s fingers hover over Jisung’s nose. He’s scared to touch. To feel Jisung.

Everything feels _weird_ between them, like their world was thrown off balance when Woojin went to Jisung’s apartment all those weeks ago. He wishes he could fix it, but these things take time more than anything else. 

They can’t just wake up with everything fixed.

Woojin pulls himself out of his thoughts, and continues wiping the blood from Jisung’s nose, hesitating when the younger flinches. He must be in pain. 

Woojin knows enough about boxing to recognize pain.

“Okay?” He asks, fingers just barely hovering over his face. 

Jisung nods. “Okay. You can continue.”

Woojin hesitates, just in case Jisung changes his mind, before going back to what he was previously doing. This time, Jisung doesn’t flinch. He’s oddly quiet, leaving Woojin to wonder what’s got him so out of it.

It can’t be the match. Jisung had literally pulled himself from the ground so he could hug Felix afterwards.

All while _smiling_. 

Woojin doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone so happy after a match. Looks of defeat and anger, he is used to. He has yet to grow used to Jisung. There’s just something about him that Woojin doesn’t understand.

“Everything okay?” Woojin finally asks, unable to hold back his curiosity any longer. They have to start somewhere eventually. He can’t always hide in the shadows, waiting for their relationship to miraculously fix itself.

“What changed?” A question for a question. Woojin almost laughs. He doesn’t even know how to answer.

Chan had pinned it down to his feelings earlier, but Woojin had come to terms with them ages ago. Maybe he just cares about Jisung in ways he hadn’t before.

Woojin draws his hand back, hesitating.

“I don’t know,” He confesses. Jisung’s nose scrunches up, and Woojin knows that it wasn’t the answer he was looking for. 

Not one to disappoint, he adds, “I think I might care about you more than I did before. Maybe it just took me some time to realize.”

Jisung is quiet for a few seconds, clearly processing Woojin’s words.

Then, “You care about me?” 

He sounds happy, almost. Woojin has to fight back a smile as he disinfects the wounds on Jisung’s face.

“Of course,” Woojin responds. Jisung flinches under the bite of the disinfectant, but he doesn’t complain about it. He never has.

Instead, he smiles up at Woojin.

“I care about you too. Even if it doesn’t seem like it after…” Jisung’s voice trails off, and Woojin places the cloth in his hands back down onto the countertop Jisung’s sitting on, looking up at him.

“Everything,” Jisung finishes, and his voice is so small. Woojin aches for him. 

“Jisung,” He says, softly, meeting his eyes. “We can’t move on if we’re stuck in the past.”

Jisung frowns.

“But I wanna make it better,” Jisung protests, quietly. His eyes drop to the floor, refusing to meet Woojin’s own. 

Woojin doesn’t know why it hurts so much, but it does.

He sighs, and tucks a hand under Jisung’s chin. Slowly tilts it upwards and says, “You did your part. We talked it out. Now we just gotta give it some time.”

Jisung doesn’t seem convinced, and Woojin doesn’t know what else to say. This is new to him. Jisung is new.

Jisung’s head is still tilted back. Eyes closed, and from this angle, Woojin can drink in the curves of his face. The sloping of his nose, and outward push of his lips, just slight enough for it to catch Woojin’s attention.

Something itches at him, but Woojin doesn’t push it. Doesn’t bother dissecting it right now. There are more important things to focus on. Like the spot of dried blood on his cheekbone that Woojin had missed earlier. Or the telltale bruising already forming against the plane of Jisung’s nose. _It’ll be hard to cover up_ , Woojin thinks. He feels bad.

It hurts to look at, the array of injuries but he knows Jisung’s had worse—dealt with worse, even. He spares him the pity, and focuses on patching him up instead. 

Woojin focuses on what he can do.

—

“So, what? You’re just going back to normal after what happened?” Hyunjin asks, scowling. Woojin tries not to flinch when he puts down an empty glass onto the counter. 

Hyunjin cleans the bar obsessively. Woojin should be used to it by now.

“I wouldn’t exactly say _normal_ ,” Woojin responds, trying to keep his tone light. Hyunjin makes a noise of disapproval in his throat, and slams another glass down. Wipes his hands on the rag he’s holding, and reaches for another glass.

Maybe he should’ve given the bartender job to someone else.

Still, Woojin raises his hands from the smooth counter, and lets Hyunjin clean.

“I’m the one who has to forgive him, not you.” A reminder. Sometimes Hyunjin needs those.

Hyunjin sighs.

“There’s no point in arguing with you, is there?” Hyunjin asks, leaning back from the counter. He reaches for something Woojin can’t see.

“Not really.” 

Hyunjin meets his eyes, and Woojin wishes his expression wasn’t so unreadable, even after all the time they’ve known each other.

Behind them comes the familiar sound of the door opening, and Woojin can’t help but turn in his seat to see who it is. Not many people come by at this time, which can mean only one thing.

Behind him, Hyunjin sucks in a sharp breath, and that’s when Woojin _sees_.

“You’re back,” He says, softly. From across the room, Changbin looks ready to dart at any sign of trouble. Gone is the person who had stared smugly from the edge of Jisung’s couch. 

Something’s changed.

 _And there it is_ , Woojin thinks. The feeling that everything around him has changed, when the surface looks exactly the same.

But maybe it’s what lies _underneath_ that’s really changed.

Changbin hovers by the door, training bag fixed on one shoulder, and his eyes dart quickly between Woojin’s and Hyunjin’s.

One look at Hyunjin, and Woojin knows why he’s afraid.

“Hyunjin,” He chides, and the bartender goes back to what he was doing. Mutters a quiet, “Your mess to clean up, not mine,” under his breath, and Woojin finally relaxes.

“I’m back,” Changbin blurts out, and Woojin realizes it was in response to what he said earlier. He isn’t sure where to go from there.

Changbin looks unsure of himself, and it’s so unnerving that it’s enough for Woojin snaps out of it.

He forces himself to smile, and responds with, “It’s nice to have you here. Felt wrong without you all this time.”

Changbin’s uneasiness vanishes soon enough, replaced by a bright smile instead. Hyunjin is silent from behind the bar, and Woojin can practically hear the _clicking_ of everything snapping into place again. 

It feels normal. _Right_.

—

Woojin finds him alone. 

It’s uncharacteristic. Usually, boxing is done in pairs. It’s more efficient, and makes more sense that way.

But maybe it’s too hard. To face Jisung.

Woojin isn’t sure. He never asked Jisung what specifically happened when he talked to Changbin. It was never his place to ask. 

It’s Jisung’s place to tell. It always has been, and Woojin doesn’t want to push it and ruin the scraps of their relationship that they’ve managed to salvage.

“You should have a partner to do this with,” Woojin finally says, but it’s barely heard over the familiar _thwack_ of skin against leather. Changbin’s switched from simple exercises to the boxing bag in the corner of the room.

It’s familiar. It should be, but something about it feels uncharacteristically wrong. Something about how Changbin twists his wrist to meet leather, and the way the sound echoes throughout the training room.

Changbin grunts in response, too late, but Woojin doesn’t point it out. There’s no use.

“Let me,” Woojin offers. The room goes silent, and for a second, he’s afraid that he said the wrong thing. That Changbin holds some sort of unresolved resentment against him. Maybe that’s why Jisung had yet to bring up what they talked about. It makes sense, after all.

Changbin steps closer to him then, smiling a little, and Woojin knows his worries are without any basis.

 _Thank god_ , he thinks. He’s had enough trouble the past couple of weeks. There’s no point in adding to the pile.

“You have to warm up,” Changbin says. He picks at the gauze wrapping his wrists. 

When Woojin doesn’t move, he reaches down towards the floor. Holds out the tape to Woojin, who happily accepts.

“I’ve been doing this more often than I planned,” Woojin admits. “I never wanted anything to do with this when I took over.”

Changbin is silent, eyes careful and watchful as Woojin wraps the tape around his hands. For a second, Woojin thinks he’s said too much.

“Was it because of Jisung that you started again?” He asks, a little too quietly. Woojin stiffens at the question, but he shakes his head.

“No. I got stressed out about some stuff regarding work, and I ended up here. Jisung was the one who found me,” He answers. It feels like forever ago, now that he thinks about it. The memory is so distant, blurry and hazy. He wishes it wasn’t.

He feels like he should be clinging onto every moment spent with Jisung.

“Ah.” Changbin’s voice doesn’t give away much, but Woojin doesn’t care. 

Woojin hadn’t fought in years up until a few months ago. He isn’t sure what changed in so little time, or whether he likes it. Part of him knows it’s good. That he’s making progress, but it’s merely just a baby step.

Nothing more.

Changbin moves right then, pulling Woojin out of his thoughts. Heads towards the ring, and Woojin doesn’t even hesitate. 

It doesn’t matter if he hasn’t stepped foot in the ring in ages. Doesn’t matter if he never properly warmed up, or that it’s Changbin by his side instead of Jisung.

Woojin has no choice but to follow. He’ll always follow Changbin.

“Think you can keep up?” Changbin’s teasing. Woojin knows it, but he can’t help the smile that makes its way across his face despite the fact.

“I’m more worried about you,” Woojin says, but there are traces of humor in his voice. He watches the way Changbin relaxes, and sighs out of relief.

“Save it,” Changbin responds, smoothly, and Woojin’s focus wavers. Just barely, but enough for Changbin to propel himself forward, hand connecting soundly into Woojin’s stomach.

He really should’ve warmed up. 

Woojin manages to maintain his balance despite that, but he still hisses through his teeth when the pain rocks through him in waves.

It’s been too long. Long enough for him to forget his days of ice packs and painful stitches after matches. To forget the way pain nips at his heels, a reminder of the life he’d tried to leave behind.

Woojin grits his teeth. Even so, this is familiar territory. He can’t let the past deter him. Not anymore, that is.

Changbin ducks as Woojin swings, hitting empty air. He’s too fast for him to catch.

“I know you’re curious.” A step to the left, and Changbin’s knuckles just barely graze Woojin’s side.

Woojin steps back, steeling himself before he dives back in. For a moment, Woojin’s vision tunnels, and he remembers what it’s like to really fight. 

“About what?” Woojin forces out, trying to dodge another blow. Changbin catches the edge of his jaw, and Woojin stumbles back, muttering a curse under his breath. He’s not focused enough.

Or Changbin’s just too good. Neither option make him feel better.

Still, Woojin pushes himself forward. Keeps fighting, because there’s nothing else for him to do.

“Jisung.” Woojin is too slow this time, and Changbin’s clenched fist slams against his windpipe. For a terrifying moment, he forgets how to breathe.

But then his airways open back up, and oxygen floods his lungs. Replace the panic, and Woojin’s breathing steadies. 

“It’s not my business,” Woojin responds, gasping for breath. Across the mat, Changbin grins.

“It’s not,” Changbin agrees, and he’s giving Woojin no time to recover. _Good_ , he thinks. Changbin’s always been like this. Relentless, but not brutal. No, Changbin’s never crossed that line.

Woojin readies himself, and this time he is the first to throw a punch.

“I’m assuming it went well,” Woojin guesses, and he steps back to easily avoid a punch from Changbin. _Maybe I just needed some time to get used to it_ , he thinks.

Across from him, Changbin laughs. It’s a bitter sound. Like gravel crunching on asphalt, and Woojin has to resist the urge to cover his ears. He is not used to bitterness. Not from Changbin.

“It’s you, hyung. All he sees is you.” The words hit Woojin harder than he would’ve thought possible. Harder than any punch, any blow, or jab, and for a second, Woojin stops.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. The only source of movement comes from the rising and falling of his chest as he stares at Changbin in wonder.

 _All he sees is you_.

“Doesn’t matter that he kissed me. All he ever saw was you,” Changbin repeats, softer this time. His shoulders hunch forward, arms falling down to his sides.

And, oh, Woojin is terribly sad. He’s never seen Changbin like this. He wishes he could do something.

There’s a long, awful silence. Neither of them move.

Then, “Are you okay, Changbin? This can’t be easy for you.”

Changbin’s face contorts, but it smooths over easily. Like drawing shapes in the sand. Water evens it all out eventually, leaving no trace of them. That’s what Changbin reminds Woojin of. 

“I’m fine. I have Minho, and that’s more than enough,” Changbin responds. 

His eyes flutter closed, and Woojin can’t move. He stays still, not wanting to ruin the tentative peace in the room.

“I have Minho,” He repeats, voice louder and stronger this time. “And myself. I’ll always have myself.”

Whatever Woojin was going to say next is interrupted by the sound of a door opening. Boxers pour through it, and then Woojin is slipping past the ropes without a word.

The less people that see, the better. He doesn’t want them thinking that him fighting is permanent, or, worse, something tangible and real.

Changbin’s words echo in his mind.

 _All he sees is you_.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ _Hyung_ ,” He repeats, more urgently this time. “We can get through this, can’t we? It’s us.”
> 
> And it’s like he popped the pin off of a grenade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this update took forever but i was in a bit of a writing slump for about. a week so thats why :[ also its minbin centric!! the next one will be back to woosung n focus more on their development (no promises though i tend to derail sometimes)
> 
> i wrote most of this while listening to lust for life. specifically love. im just lana stan (also her music like. completely matches the theme/mood of this chapter n this fic in general)
> 
> as always please leave a comment or like. anything those r my literal life force for updating

Changbin almost makes it out the front door. 

The thing is that he’s never missed a match before. Not one of Jisung’s, at least. It’s an unspoken rule that the trainer always shows up for a match. For good morale, and whatnot. But it’s not a requirement. Jisung will go on, with him or without him. Changbin knows that, which brings him to his current predicament.

He pauses in front of the doorknob, hesitating. His hand is stretched out, but he can’t seem to bring himself to grab the knob and twist it open.

Minho will definitely be there for the match. There’s no doubt about it. He can’t afford to miss one of Felix’s matches as his trainer, not since he’s still relatively new to the club and needs the support that Minho offers.

That every trainer is supposed to offer. 

But maybe Changbin can sit this one out. No harm will come of it. In fact, Jisung would probably be relieved not to find his face in the crowd. Next to the ring, where he usually stands. 

Changbin scowls, pulling his hand back. Too many complications for him. There’s no point in trying to detangle them.

So, he walks back to his room instead. 

Slides off his shirt, and slips into the too big bed. It’s been a long time since he last slept well.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before he finally gives in to sleep, no longer aware of his surroundings or the upcoming match.

It’s easy to pretend that it isn’t happening when he’s tucked away into the comfort of his bed.

—

Across the kitchen, Minho scowls. Changbin ducks his head down, pressing the button on his coffee machine. He watches it slowly drip coffee down into the cup instead of meeting Minho’s eyes, which seem to burn right through him.

He should’ve just gone to the match. It’s this unspoken thing, that trainers and coaches show up to watch and give pointers. Still, he’s too restless to deal with Minho and the repercussions of his decision right now.

When the coffee machine beeps, Changbin has no choice but to slide his cup out from under it.

Wordlessly, Minho gives him another mug. Changbin doesn’t bother to look at him as he slides it under the coffee machine, and presses the button. It’s pure muscle memory at this point. He can’t remember how many times they’ve done this. Together.

“You never missed my matches.” The words fall like knives, never missing their destination. They strike Changbin directly in his heart, tearing him open.

Minho’s right. But Changbin likes to think that it’s more complicated than Minho realizes. That there’s more to what’s happening between him and Jisung, but he knows that’s not true. They’ve moved on. Both of them.

(At least, Changbin’s trying to).

But maybe Changbin’s stuck in the past. He was worried that it’d be weird between him and Jisung if he showed up, even though he knows that they’re working through it.

“I didn’t,” Changbin agrees. He’s too late. Minho’s eyes still haven’t left Changbin, and they’re sharp, cutting right through him. 

_Beep_. Changbin pushes the mug towards Minho. When did this start? When did they start drinking coffee together in the mornings and blur the line between trainer and trainee?

Changbin isn’t sure.

Either way, Minho’s always been better at reading Changbin than other people. Something about keen observation skills and noticing patterns.

Changbin’s never really understood it. 

“You should’ve been there,” Minho says, and he sounds awfully tired. So, so tired. Changbin knows there’s something going on with him. There has been for a while now, but he doesn’t want to push it, especially if Minho isn’t ready to talk about it.

He’s learned that this is the easiest way for them to get along. To wait for the rise of the tide. To watch it flow and ebb, instead of pushing through the too deep water and risking drowning.

 _Patience_. That is what Minho has taught him after all these years together.

“I should’ve,” Changbin agrees, and nothing more. He doesn’t feel like talking about it, but Minho doesn’t care. He’ll press until Changbin breaks.

Where Minho pushes, Changbin pulls.

“Jisung lost the match, though. Figured you might wanna know,” Minho tells him. Changbin falters, just the slightest. He shouldn’t be surprised—Felix had come from another fight club before coming to Woojin’s—but it’s hard not to be.

Across the island countertop, Minho scowls.

“Don’t do that. You’re not allowed to pity him. Not when you didn’t show up,” He says, a sign of the forgiveness he’s slowly started to show Jisung. Pushes the still full mug of coffee away, and looks around the kitchen.

Changbin watches him pick up his jacket, not trusting himself to speak. Part of him is relieved that he can’t see Minho’s face right now.

“I have to go to work. The kids are waiting,” Minho explains. Changbin nods wordlessly.

Minho’s gone before Changbin can say another word.

He sighs. Maybe it’s for the best.

—

He goes looking for Jisung eventually, despite every part of him saying to leave it alone, that he’ll just end up making things worse.

Changbin doesn’t care. 

So, he heads down to the club. Guilt is his compass right now, and it’s pointing straight at Jisung.

Or maybe he’s just trying to placate Minho. He hates making him upset, after all. Minho is the kind of person who has no tolerance for this, who believes that Changbin can be better. 

Changbin sighs. He doesn’t know. It all feels so complicated lately, what’s right, what’s not. His emotions. Minho has too much faith in him.

Still, Changbin pushes forward. Keeps pushing until his shoes squeak against the tiled hallway that leads to the training room, and to the door. He pushes through that too, and searches.

Jisung’s always been easy to spot. He’s not much taller than Changbin, but he has this _presence_ , that kind that fills up a room. Changbin isn’t expecting to find him, because it’s better to rest after a match than train, but he’s there. Changbin shouldn’t be this surprised.

Felix is, too, and Changbin’s wondering why they aren’t at work. Then his brain kickstarts and he remembers that it’s _Minho_ who works through the weekend, not them.

And it’s weird, because Changbin feels frozen. He’s never understood the feeling—it couldn’t possibly be hard to just move—but he feels rooted in place, like some sort of invisible force has trapped him to floor.

Then Felix beckons him over, and the feeling disappears. Vanishes like it was never there in the first place, and Changbin is so relieved. The unease remains, but his body is _moving_ again and that’s all that matters.

“We missed you last night!” Felix says, and he’s unusually bright today. Changbin doesn’t see any of the other boxers around, and he knows it’s too early. This is the time he and Jisung would usually train, so as to not have any distractions.

Looking between Jisung and Felix, he realizes that some habits are hard to kick after all.

“That’s actually why I’m here,” Changbin admits, and he drops his gaze. Looking Jisung in the eyes just got so much harder. He wishes he’d just gone last night. It’s not like him, to let inconsequential things get in the way of being a trainer.

He thinks back to the first time Chan had introduced Jisung to him. Things would be a lot different if he’d just stuck with his gut instinct, but there’s also no point in dwelling on the past. It won’t get him anywhere.

Changbin realizes that Jisung is staring at him.

“Did you hear what I said?” He asks, softly, and the tips of Changbin’s ears burn red. He hadn’t realized Jisung was talking. Next to them, Felix makes a point of staring at his hands. 

When neither of them say anything, he clears his throat and awkwardly excuses himself.

“I said it’s okay. I wasn’t expecting you to show up.” Jisung’s voice mixes with the fading sounds of Felix’s footsteps, and Changbin thinks his head might be spinning.

 _I wasn’t expecting you to show up_.

Partly relieved, partly hurt. It stings, a little more than he’d like to admit. But relief wrestles down the hurt and overwhelms him eventually, and he manages a smile.

“Still, I should’ve shown up,” Changbin responds, and Jisung shrugs in response, seemingly unbothered.

Changbin deflates. Maybe it’s a good sign that Jisung wasn’t hurt by it. Maybe he understands more than Changbin realizes.

“It’s okay. I understand. Really, hyung,” Jisung says. Changbin wants to laugh. Even after everything, they honest-to-god _know_ each other in the kind of way he can’t put into words.

So maybe Minho was dramatic for nothing this morning, and they can all move on.

“Just, uh, show up next time. Please. I need you here,” Jisung adds, almost a little too quickly, and that’s when Changbin sees his expression falter. Underneath, he sees the emotions Jisung hadn’t shown earlier, an array of worry and surprisingly, an intense amount of trust.

 _Oh_ , he thinks. 

“Next time,” Changbin repeats. And there’s that feeling again, the blissful one that accompanies relief. Underneath it all, Changbin had been worried that this was a one time thing. That Jisung just wanted to see what Felix was made out of, and nothing more. That one match was enough.

But it wasn’t, and he feels ashamed for doubting Jisung in the first place.

“Yeah. I can’t do this without you, of course,” Jisung says, his voice equally firm and soft.

Changbin relaxes. At the end of the day, he is still Jisung’s trainer, and nothing will ever change that. Not even his fading feelings for him. 

Next to him, Jisung’s got this hopeful sort of smile on his face, like he’s waiting for Changbin to say something.

So he does.

“I’ll be there from now on. Promise.”

And there it is. The smile that had Changbin wondering if he was in love not too long ago.

—

Minho’s rummaging through the break fridge while Changbin tries to think of ways to bridge the silence between them. It’s not awkward or anything—he’s just _restless_ today, and the silence isn’t helping.

“Did you talk to Jisung?” Minho finally asks, poking his head out from the fridge. In his hands is a box of what Changbin presumes to be his lunch.

He’s made a point of stopping by lately. It makes Minho happy.

“Oh, yeah. He wasn’t too upset actually, but I told him I’d show up for his other matches,” Changbin responds, and he’s relieved when Minho smiles as he takes his seat at the table.

They’re sitting across from each other in the break room of Minho’s workplace now, and Changbin’s still trying to understand what’s been off with him lately. 

Minho opens his boxed lunch carefully, and then looks up with a confused expression, eyebrows pinching together.

“Fork. I forgot to get one,” Minho mutters, and then he’s getting up all over again. Changbin bites back a smile as he watches him flit around the mini kitchen, previous train of thought already forgotten.

When he reappears back in his seat, Changbin’s given up on hiding his smile.

“Something funny, Seo?” 

Except Minho’s smiling too, and Changbin’s grasping at the small moment that lapses between them, because Minho hasn’t smiled a lot lately, and he misses it. He misses Minho, but he feels so far away, even though all that’s separating them is a plastic table and two uncomfortable chairs that dig into their spines.

“Not at all,” Changbin responds, still smiling, and he decides to drop it for now. 

Minho will come to him if something’s wrong. He always does. 

Where Minho pushes, Changbin pulls. Pulls him closer, and waits.

—

Except it comes up again a few days later.

It goes something like this. They’re pressed into the cushions of Changbin’s couch, with him wrapped around Minho, who’s flat on his back. He’s unusually quiet today, so Changbin moves closer, chin digging into Minho’s shoulder, and he waits. Like being closer is going to coax it out of Minho.

It’s a half-assed plan at best, but it’s better than nothing.

Changbin knows that it’s best to wait. To let Minho come to him when something’s wrong, but he’s thinking about that morning in his kitchen again, when Minho looked exhausted, and he can’t hold himself back anymore.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Changbin blurts out. And then he tilts his face so it’s covered by the sleeve of Minho’s shirt, because it’s easier to hide than it is to face reality. Minho’s warm. Steady, too, and he smells good.

Not that Changbin notices. It’s hard not to, actually, considering how close they currently are. But Minho likes affection, and Changbin likes giving it to him.

Again, he doesn’t know when or where they blurred the line. When they became something more than trainer and trainee. Maybe it’s because Minho coaches other fighters now, so their relationship is allowed to develop and grow from where it first started.

Or maybe Changbin’s missing a piece of the puzzle. A huge, seemingly obvious piece. That seems more likely, and maybe that’s why Changbin asked Minho if he wants to talk about it.

Minho stirs right then, drawing Changbin out of his thoughts. He’s still flat on his back, but one of his hands taps against Changbin’s own, fingers gentle against his skin.

_Tap tap tap._

Changbin relaxes almost instantly, lifting his head back up. Minho’s touch is comforting, a steady reminder that he’s there with him. He shifts so his head rests on Minho’s chest, and waits.

“Talk about what?” Like nothing’s wrong, and Changbin deflates at his words, even though he was expecting that very response. Part of him wonders if he’s imagining it, the quietness and the offhandedness disguised as nothing more than background noise.

He can’t be.

“I don’t know.” Changbin’s voice is small, so he clears his throat, and tries again. “It just seems like there’s something going on with you lately. That’s all.”

Minho stiffens, and the _tap tap tap_ of his fingers against Changbin’s knuckles quickly fades. He twists his head, meeting Changbin’s eyes as he looks down. It’s awkward, considering how they’re positioned right now.

Changbin should’ve waited.

“What makes you say that?” Minho’s voice is level. Calm, but Changbin knows better than that. Because if he looks close enough, he can see the way Minho’s face contorts from the upward scrunch of his nose and downturn of his eyebrows, and he knows his instincts weren’t wrong.

“Jesus, Minho. I don’t know. It’s just like, this _feeling_ I’ve had lately,” Changbin responds, slightly exasperated. He doesn’t know how to explain himself. 

“You look tired, too. Not just today, but in general,” Changbin adds, because he feels like he should. Because, maybe, if he explains himself, this will go well. Minho will open up to him, and everything will be okay.

But then Minho screws his eyes shut, and he’s silent for a moment.

When he opens them again, Changbin doesn’t miss the irritation on his face.

“I don’t know how you haven’t put it together yet,” Minho says, his voice quiet, and Changbin feels like the breath has been knocked out of him. 

He’s missing something. Something he hasn’t noticed, except he has no idea what it is. He was right, earlier.

So, he goes with his best option. He tells Minho.

“I feel like I’m missing something obvious,” Changbin confesses, softly, like that’ll lessen the impact of his words. It doesn’t, but it’s worth a try.

Minho shrugs, and there’s a blank look on his face now.

“You’d think you would notice, all things considered,” He responds. 

Changbin doesn’t understand; he hates ambiguity for this very reason. Frustration swells up from inside of him, clouding his mind.

“I don’t know what that means,” Changbin mutters, pulling himself away from Minho’s warmth. He brings himself to a sitting position, knees curled up to his chest, and Minho sits up as well, disbelief written all over his face.

Changbin can’t look at him. It’s easier not to, and maybe that makes him a coward. So be it.

“I’m talking about Jisung,” Minho tells him, and it’s enough for the wave of frustration inside of Changbin to crest. It washes over him. _Jisung_. As if he has anything to do with what’s going on.

“What does Jisung have to do with any of this?” Changbin demands. Minho pushes himself off of the couch, choosing to stand instead. Changbin lets his knees fall down from his chest, that way he’s sitting cross-legged.

And it’s kind of funny. Whenever he thinks about arguments, he thinks about proximity, and the whole _getting in each other’s faces_ part of the ordeal. Except Minho’s pacing across the living room and Changbin’s on the couch, wondering how this went so horribly wrong so fast. 

He feels unreachable.

Minho is silent for a long stretch of time, long enough for him to grow antsy. But Changbin doesn’t repeat his question.

This time, he’ll wait.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before Minho folds his arms across his chest, and fixes his gaze on Changbin. It’s unnerving, almost. Where Minho is usually warm and all sorts of welcoming, he’s the exact opposite right now. Not exactly cold, but distant. Changbin isn’t used to it. This is Minho, after all.

“I meant that it should be easy for you to figure it out, considering you still have feelings for someone who doesn’t like you back,” Minho says, his voice strangely quiet. The gears in Changbin’s brain start spinning, a little too fast for him to catch up.

 _Someone who doesn’t like you back_. The words spin in his mind dangerously, until they come together with a _click_. 

Changbin’s mouth falls open, just barely, and when he glances up, Minho’s looking away from him. Eyes screwed shut, and Changbin’s peeling himself off of the couch.

“Oh, Minho,” He whispers, taking a step towards him. Minho composure crumples, just for the briefest of moments, but he’s piling it back up, brick by brick, before Changbin can even get a word out.

It’s fine. Changbin can handle this. 

Minho still won’t look at him. Maybe he can’t handle it after all, because not everything works out perfectly. Sometimes feelings are one sided, or two people just can’t align themselves to fit together perfectly at the right time.

Or Changbin’s making excuses. An endless amount of options, and he’s losing himself in the sea they’ve created around him.

Changbin kicks his way to the surface, thinking about how Minho must feel as his motivation.

“ _Minho_. Minho, please,” He says, softly, and he takes another step towards him.

“Don’t worry. I don’t blame you, or anything along those lines. Sometimes these things just don’t work out. It’s okay,” Minho responds, his face blank yet again. Changbin wishes there was any sign of emotion—a hint of sadness, or maybe frustration—but it’s like trying to interpret an unused canvas. He’s shutting Changbin out.

 _I don’t blame you_. Changbin clenches his jaw, trying to keep it together. There’s no point in succumbing to his emotions right now. If Minho can keep it together, then so can he. 

“It’s,” Minho pauses, twisting his fingers together so hard it must hurt, “not your fault.” Changbin can see him clenching his fingers into a fist now, the only clear sign of frustration he’s shown in the past few minutes.

“It’s not,” Changbin agrees, as much as he doesn’t want to. “But why bring Jisung into it?” And there’s that flash of anger again. It takes a tremendous amount of energy to swat it aside instead of simply giving in. It’s not worth it—giving in, that is—considering that it would only make things worse. They both have a tendency to fight fire with more fire.

Minho shrugs. “Would you have understood if I didn’t?”

And, well, Changbin doesn’t have a good response to that. 

Minho’s just a few steps away from him, tracing a path into the carpet of Changbin’s living room, but he feels as if they’re miles away. Like there’s an ocean of water separating them, and Changbin can’t bring himself to cross it.

“I wasn’t gonna tell you,” Minho confesses then, and all of a sudden, the ocean between them feels a lot more reachable, like he’s reaching out with a hand for Changbin to hold onto. Like he’s no longer shutting him out. Changbin is relieved.

He understands that much. It’s not hard to, but that means Minho must’ve been carrying this for ages now, and the thought is painful. Minho, the one who defended him and was by his side the entire time he was getting over Jisung, had kept his feelings in check.

For him. 

All of the anger washes out of Changbin’s body. There’s no point in getting angry right now. He can’t even remember what made him so upset in the first place. _It’s not worth it_ , he thinks. This isn’t worth fighting over. This isn’t worth losing _Minho_ over. Nothing is.

So, he opens his arms, and says, “Please,” in the hopes that Minho will understand.

Minho, as always, does, and so Changbin’s cradling him in his arms within a few seconds. They sink down and into the carpet, Changbin pulling Minho impossibly closer. Close enough to notice the tremors that are running through his body, the same ones he hadn’t noticed earlier.

Another thing he missed about Minho. He feels sick to his stomach, like he should’ve put this together earlier.

“Hyung,” Changbin says. No matter how much sheer will he puts into it, his voice cannot stop shaking. If Minho notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“ _Hyung_ ,” He repeats, more urgently this time. “We can get through this, can’t we? It’s us.”

And it’s like he popped the pin off of a grenade.

Changbin doesn’t think he’s ever seen Minho cry. Not in the kind of way that completely takes over his body and leaves him gasping for breath.

Changbin feels stuck in place, floating aimlessly while Minho cries in his arms. He knows that he should do something, try to fix this maybe, but he’s out of ideas. That small voice in the back of his head, the one that never shuts up, is obnoxiously loud right now, but it’s useless.

It’s useless, because Changbin is awful and has nothing more to offer than his arms and a shoulder to cry on. He wishes it was enough. That he could do more.

“What are you crying for, hyung?” Changbin finally blurts out, trying to keep his voice somewhat teasing, but even _he’s_ about to start crying at this point. It’s taking all of his willpower not to.

Minho sniffles, and Changbin can feel him stirring from the way they’re positioned. A beat of silence follows before Minho breaks it.

“I shouldn’t have said anything. It would’ve been easier for the both of us that way,” He admits, his voice somewhat unusually quiet. 

Changbin doesn’t know what to say. He knows that there’s no good way to respond, which makes it all the worse. 

“There’s no easy way out in this situation,” Changbin finally says, hoping it’s the right response. To his surprise, Minho nods.

“You’re right.” His voice is stronger now, less tear and crack ridden than it was earlier. It puts Changbin at ease. 

“I’m still sorry I told you, even if you’re getting over Jisung. It wasn’t fair of me.” Changbin wants to protest. _I’m glad you told me_ rests uneasily on the tip of his tongue, pushing its way forward.

Changbin swallows the sentence back down. He knows Minho wouldn’t appreciate it, no matter how heavy it was on his tongue.

“Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong,” Changbin says, firmly. In his grip, Minho shifts, and they’re back to where they started. Minho in Changbin’s arms, except he’s sitting on his side.

Changbin holds him. He doesn’t know what else to do.

And if he feels a tear or two roll down Minho’s cheek and dampen the front of his shirt, he doesn’t say anything. Just brushes a hand through his hair, and tightens his hold. Minho is impossibly warm in his arms.

 _Affection_. It’s what’s keeping them together, the kind that’s been built up through their time together. It’s strung bare and precariously thin, but it’s _there_. 

That’s all that matters, it seems.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wishes it was that simple, that he could sit down and unwrap all of the strings that connect his emotions together, and lay it out for Woojin to see.
> 
> Red for love. Blue for fear, and a line of yellow right next to it. Happiness and joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am going to TRY to finish this fic before i go back to school. which is on the 26th n not much of a realistic goal but i think theres gonna be like 3 chapters at most before i finish this fic!! no promises though :p this plot is kinda complicated n follows multiple characters stories so it might change 
> 
> also. while i am here. this might be one of my favorite chapters? its not well written or anything but i sat down last night n wrote more than 2k of it so i didnt have the time to like...fret over every little detail n i ended up pretty happy with how it turned out!! 
> 
> as always leave a comment or something!! i cant explain just how much they motivate me to write another chapter
> 
> (also this chapter makes me think of the last of the real ones by fob if anyone knows that song. especially the star n planets line)

Jisung’s begun to dread work a little less.

He doesn’t remember when it started. When he no longer sighed at the thought of filling out form after form at his desk, or when he started smiling at the sight of the company building coming into view every morning.

So maybe having a corporate job isn’t all that bad, and he can finally get over this stupid midlife crisis that never seems to end. Because there’s _more_ to his life now. Because he can walk into work and smile at Woojin without wondering if it’s okay or not.

Like right now. The elevator doors open with a _ding_ , and Jisung’s walking down the narrow hallway that leads to their company’s offices. When he walks in, Woojin looks up. He’s always there before Jisung.

Jisung waves instinctively, a too big smile on his face as he balances the coffee holder in his hands. He’s not sure how fast they’re supposed to be moving—maybe waving is a little too much, actually—but Woojin doesn’t seem to mind. 

It’s slow going more than anything. Felix says he’s stupid and should do something more than just smile at Woojin every single day when he clocks into work, but Jisung wants to do it _right_ this time. So he sticks to simple smiles and the occasional wave, because they’re safe and familiar.

When he sits down in his desk chair, Felix grunts in greeting. He’s hunched over some paperwork, eyes drooping, so Jisung reaches across his table to flick him on the forehead as affectionately as possible.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead.” He slides him the cup of coffee he’d picked up on his way here, which gets him a slightly more coherent response.

Jisung grins, ready to start the day.

—

“Morning.”

Jisung jumps, startled by the sudden intrusion. He turns to see who’s standing next to him, and finds Woojin. He’s wearing his work outfit, a simple black suit with a tie and everything. It’s similar to Jisung’s own, but it looks much more different on him.

As if on instinct, Jisung relaxes at the mere presence of Woojin. The crosswalk light gleams across the street as the crowd around them pushes forward, but neither of them move, Jisung contemplating if he should start a conversation or not. 

Someone bumps into him as he’s doing so, muttering angrily under their breath, and Woojin’s reaching out to steady him before he can even say a word.

Jisung looks down to where Woojin’s hand lies around his waist, eyes wide at their proximity. The crowd around them is thinning now, and Jisung definitely doesn’t miss the way Woojin’s cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink.

“Sorry. I thought you were gonna fall for a second there,” Woojin apologizes, quickly letting go of him. Jisung’s waist feels empty, despite the short moment Woojin had put his hand there. He tries not to think about it.

Jisung opens his mouth to respond, but Woojin’s eyes drift elsewhere, towards the crosswalk.

“Looks like we have to wait again to cross the street,” Woojin says, but there’s no hint of disappointment in his voice. When Jisung looks over, he’s smiling a little.

Jisung allows himself to smile, too.

“Is it weird for you?” Woojin asks then, looking straight ahead. Eyes trained on the signal light. Jisung blinks in surprise, wondering what he means.

“Is that why you stick to smiles and waving?” Woojin continues, and _oh_. Jisung understands now. Of course he’s noticed Jisung’s hesitance. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to him, knowing Woojin, but it does anyways.

“It’s not _weird_. I’m just scared to do anything beyond that,” Jisung answers, his voice too quiet over the sound of cars honking and pedestrians immersed in conversations.

Woojin doesn’t say anything, so Jisung sneaks a glance at him, his curiosity overwhelming. He doesn’t appear angry (Jisung has a bad habit of assuming the worst) or unsettled by Jisung’s answer. It’s more like he’s thinking carefully about how to respond.

When the signal light flashes again, Woojin moves. Jisung, of course, follows.

“I don’t think you have any reason to be scared.” Woojin dodges a businessman chattering angrily on the phone, and Jisung struggles to keep up with him.

He trails behind due to the influx of people surrounding them, and, through the crowd, he can see Woojin looking for him.

Jisung pushes his way through, throwing out apologies here and there. He’s only halfway paying attention—Woojin is the pinpoint of his focus, after all—since he just wants to get closer.

When he catches up, Woojin is holding out his hand for him. They’re back on the crosswalk, on the other side of the street, and the traffic around them lessens to a quiet hum as Jisung stares at Woojin’s outstretched hand.

It’s such a small thing to get hung up on. Especially here, out of all the places. Jisung can’t remember if they’ve ever even held hands before. Maybe that’s why the prospect is so daunting to him. New things always are.

Or maybe Jisung’s just a coward, and he hasn’t changed at all as time has gone by.

Woojin’s staring at him expectantly, like he’s waiting to see how Jisung is going to react, and it’s enough to give him a short burst of courage.

He folds their fingers together, and it’s not poetic or perfect, really. They don’t fit together like matching puzzle pieces—Woojin’s hands are too long, longer than Jisung’s—but Jisung supposes it’s okay, because it feels _right_ , and that’s all that matters. 

The fact that Woojin’s hands are much warmer than Jisung’s cold ones is more than enough to forget the clumsiness of their fingers slotting together. Because it feels right, like they were born to do this.

Jisung can feel the tips of his ears turning pink.

“See? Nothing to be scared of,” Woojin says, keeping his eyes focused off in the distance. Jisung wishes he would look at him, but they’re moving again, down the sidewalk. He tries to match Woojin’s pace, that way it’s easier on the both of them.

Jisung keeps sneaking glances off to the side, trying to read Woojin’s expression. More than anything, he wants to know if this is okay. If _they’re_ okay.

Woojin notices. “You’re more scared than I am.”

Jisung blinks. He doesn’t respond, opting to let the words sink in instead.

“I wanna do it right this time,” Jisung finally answers, quietly. And it’s true. He’s never felt more strongly about something. A passerby gives the two of them a strange glance, and Jisung tries to ignore it. He shouldn’t be surprised. It’s not everyday people see two men in suits holding hands, but still. The attention makes him feel uneasy.

But Woojin presses closer to him, and it’s different. It’s different than when a stranger brushes shoulders with him or elbows his stomach. There’s no sense of unease, or the uncomfortable feeling that follows whenever someone he isn’t familiar with initiates contact.

With Woojin, Jisung feels comfortable. Comfortable enough to ignore the too-long stares and the lowered voices around them. It’s like white noise to his ears, and he cranks down the volume in favor of focusing on Woojin. On the way Woojin brushes his thumb over the tops of Jisung’s knuckles, almost as if he’s saying _It’s okay_. _Don’t worry about it_.

Jisung doesn’t realize how tense he is until Woojin says, “Relax. Please.”

And so he releases the breath he’s been holding this entire time. Shoulders deflate, and jaw unclenches slowly. The uneasiness seeps out of him, and he can better focus on the way Woojin is looking at him right now.

“I’m okay,” Jisung reassures. Another brush of the knuckles, and his insides _flip-flop_ at the feeling. It just feels so right with him. He wishes it was easier to explain, to put into words.

Woojin doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t let go of Jisung’s hand either, and that’s how he _knows_.

The crowd lessens the closer they get to work, considering it’s still a little early for them to be clocking in. But Woojin always comes a couple of minutes earlier, and Jisung had some extra paperwork to finish today anyways. 

When their office building comes into sight not too long afterwards, Jisung almost immediately spots a familiar head of red hair. _Seungmin_ , he thinks. Jisung’s wondering why he’s there when he notices _Felix_ right next to him, and it all makes a little more sense.

Where Seungmin goes, so does Felix. Or something along those lines. Jisung thinks it’s cute. They’re standing near the middle of the courtyard, practically equidistant from the two buildings they work in. It’s like a scene out of a movie.

Jisung squeezes Woojin’s hand a little tighter, and jerks his head towards where they’re standing.

Woojin follows his gaze, confused. 

“Look at them,” Jisung says, voice hushed so they can’t hear. Woojin must finally notice the pair, because his eyebrows pull back from where they were pinched together and there’s a small smile on his face.

Even from here, Jisung can see the tips of Felix’s ears turning red from whatever Seungmin’s saying to him. 

“I didn’t realize Seungmin liked Felix,” Woojin comments lightly, and he’s turning to look back at Jisung. He’s got that smile on his face again, the kind that makes Jisung mirror it with his own.

“I didn’t either until recently,” Jisung confesses. It’d taken him awhile to figure it out.

Jisung watches as Felix leans closer, and he suddenly feels like he’s intruding on something too personal for outsiders to see.

Woojin must too, because he tugs Jisung forward by their joined hands. “Lets go, yeah? Before we’re late.”

Jisung follows.

—

When Felix takes his seat at the desk across from Jisung’s, he’s flushed.

Jisung smiles.

“Seungmin?” He guesses, shuffling through his papers nonchalantly. He’d made a mistake in one of the earlier forms, so he’s being careful and going through them one more time, just in case.

“How did you know?” Felix asks. More shuffling, except it’s from Felix unzipping his coat jacket and shrugging it off carefully. It has started cooling down lately, signaling the onset of winter, but not enough for Jisung to start wearing extra layers. Felix always starts early. Something about catching colds easily and a weak immune system. 

Jisung, on the other hand, almost never gets sick. His knuckles _tap tap_ against the wood of his desk instinctively, not wanting to jinx it. If Felix notices him being unusually superstitious, he doesn’t say anything.

“Woojin and I walked past you guys this morning when we were coming in,” Jisung admits. He’s done reviewing the pile of paperwork, but he knows that if he looks up, Felix will see the blood rushing to his cheeks. 

Because Jisung is an open book of sorts. One look at him, and anyone can read his emotions, or what he’s thinking. And, well, it’s not his fault that he lays out his entire life before him, right where it can be read by almost anyone. It’s just how he was born, how he’s always been, like how the stars blink every night and the sun rises every morning, swallowing their light with its own.

It’s just how things are. But he doesn’t have to look at Felix. He already knows.

“You guys walk to work together now? That’s cute,” He says.

Jisung feels oddly vulnerable, despite the layers of clothing and the fact that he’s hiding his face. That’s just the thing about Felix. He’s too good at pulling him apart, like the way he would a knot of string, or the shell of a pistachio nut.

“I just happened to run into him today.” Jisung’s managed to tear his eyes away from the white and black of the papers in front of him. As always, Felix is staring.

Jisung clears his throat. “Actually, it was more the other way around. He said _hello_ to me, and then one thing led to another.”

Felix cocks his head to the sides, but doesn’t say anything else in response, so Jisung takes it as his cue to focus back on his work. He can hear Woojin talking in the background, if he listens closely.

He falls into his routine easily after that, the familiar sounds of the workplace lulling him along. It’s become easier to get through the passing days lately. Jisung wishes it was like this from the start.

He’s not sure what’s changed over the course of a couple of months, but he’s glad it has.

—

The next time Jisung goes to train, Changbin is waiting for him. Right by the rest of the other boxers.

And, well, maybe Jisung sheds a tear or two at the prospect of them being together again, but no one comments on it. (Except for Seungmin, who takes it as an opportunity to sling an arm around his shoulders and make fun of him for it).

Minho, however, is nowhere to be seen. If anything, Jisung’s a bit disappointed.

Just when everything was starting to feel right again.

—

When they’re all leaving for the day, Jisung’s hand latches onto Changbin’s wrist. He stops mid track, his shoes squeaking against the tiled hallway. 

“Hey. Is Minho okay?” He asks. “Usually he’d be here, right?” Changbin shrugs his hand off, but Jisung barely notices. Felix had been surprised that Minho hadn’t shown up today, which is suspicious enough in of itself.

“Why do you ask?” Changbin isn’t looking at him, not really. Jisung wishes he would.

Jisung shrugs. He doesn’t know how to explain that his worry is because Minho’s dangerously in love with him, or that maybe he’s worried Minho can’t get past it. That he didn’t show up because of it.

“Just wondering. We were finally starting to get along better,” Jisung answers, albeit a little slowly.

And, yeah. Changbin’s face screws up just the slightest at his response, which only allows the bad feeling inside of Jisung to further take root.

“No, it’s not you. Trust me.” Changbin’s face is smooth now, no signs of unrest or uneasiness, which is all the more concerning.

 _It’s not you_. 

Relief comes in two parts. One part blissful, and one part bitter unease. It’s not Jisung, but that must mean it’s someone else that’s keeping Minho away.

Jisung decides not to press it, because the hallway is only so long and Changbin looks more tired than usual today. It’s not his place to, either. Besides, one day doesn’t tell him anything. For all he knows, Minho’s just out sick.

It’s not his place to jump to conclusions, or to ask Changbin about it. Not anymore.

“If you say so. I’ll see you around, yeah?” Bruised knuckles wrap around the doorknob that leads to the main part of the club, near the entrance, and Jisung tries his hardest to smile.

Changbin doesn’t react. He mutters something that barely passes as a goodbye, and heads towards the exit. Jisung watches him go, curious as to what’s up with him.

A familiar voice pulls him back to shore, and out of the sinking waves.

“Done for the day?” It’s Woojin. It’s always Woojin.

Jisung can’t help it; he smiles, and walks over to the bar. It’s empty save for Woojin, and he misses Hyunjin’s presence, despite their somewhat turbulent relationship. It feels unbalanced without him here, but he’d stayed behind with Chan to practice some more.

“All done,” Jisung confirms. He adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder, trying to lessen its weight. He slides into the stool next to Woojin’s, despite being exhausted.

But it’s a different kind of exhaustion, the kind that leaves him satisfied because it comes from something that he loves.

Either way, there’s just something about Woojin that brings him back from the brink of everything. 

“You should go home and get some rest,” Woojin says, softly. Jisung can feel him looking over, but he doesn’t meet his eyes. It’s easier this way, isn’t it? Easier to pretend like Woojin isn’t trying to crack him open and get past the facade he’s built recently.

Jisung doesn’t know why he’s so scared. It should be easier than this. He knows it should be.

“Yeah. You’re right,” Jisung agrees. Because it’s easier than saying he wants to stay with him. That he’d stay until closing just to get a few moments with Woojin, but admitting that carries a degree of vulnerability he isn’t ready for.

So he slides out of the chair and tries for a smile. Woojin reaches out with his hand, and Jisung understands what he wants. Maybe it’s easier to reciprocate than Jisung thinks, because twisting their fingers together is like second nature to him, despite the fact that they’ve only done it twice.

Maybe this is easier than Jisung makes it out to be, and all he does is weave it into a complicated knot of feelings and thoughts. He wishes it was that simple, that he could sit down and unwrap all of the strings that connect his emotions together, and lay it out for Woojin to see.

Red for love. Blue for fear, and a line of yellow right next to it. Happiness and joy.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” Jisung says, because he has to let go eventually. And it’s silly, because letting go only convinces him that this really is _temporary_ , that they’ll burn out soon enough.

“I can walk you home, if that’s okay.” So maybe he doesn’t have to let go right now. Maybe Jisung and Woojin are meant to be, and there isn’t some sort of cosmic force sending obstacle after obstacle their way.

Jisung doesn’t know where all of this is coming from. Their problems cannot be written away by some supernatural force. Their problems are human, plain and simple.

Deep down, he’s just scared. 

“Jisung?” He’s taken too long to answer. When did they drift from _newbie_ to Jisung again? He can’t remember.

“Sorry! Yeah, you can. If you don’t have too much going on here,” Jisung blurts out. A step in the right direction.

“Chan can take over while I’m gone. We’ll have to take the back entrance though, since he’s still training with Hyunjin,” Woojin explains. Jisung glances down at their joined hands, and wonders how they’re going to walk.

And there it is. The complicated part of it all. It’s such a minuscule thing to think about, but Jisung can’t help it. Who’s going to hold the door open when they go down the hall, and towards the back entrance? Him or Woojin? It all depends on who goes first, or where they’re hands are.

There’s so much to consider, so much to fixate on, and all they’re doing is holding hands.

“I’ve lost you, haven’t I?” It’s a joke, because Woojin’s smiling, corners of his mouth tilting upwards. And Jisung likes it. Woojin looks much happier when he’s smiling.

“No! Sorry, my mind is just running a mile a minute right now,” Jisung admits. A deep breath, and there’s nothing to be scared of. It’s Woojin.

“That’s okay.” Woojin lets go of his hand as he stands, and it’s like a weight was removed from his chest, allowing oxygen to flow back into his lungs again.

Jisung follows him back through the door he’d come from earlier with Changbin, except Woojin’s knuckles aren’t bruised when he folds them over the doorknob and he’s still smiling warmly at Jisung.

He tries to do the same. The butterflies in his stomach are sort of losing it, crashing against his insides, and Jisung can’t tell if it’s from nerves or the unexplainable fondness he feels for Woojin.

Maybe it’s both, or he’s just scared. Scared that things are going to fall apart again because of him.

The walk down the hall feels inexplicably never ending.

“You’re stuck in your head, aren’t you?” Woojin asks, head tilted just enough to look back at Jisung, who’d been quiet up until then. He picks up the pace so they’re side by side instead, despite the persistent hammering of his heart.

“A little,” Jisung confesses. There’s no point in lying about it, not if he’s already an open book. He might as well let Woojin flip through the pages.

Woojin stretches out his hand, and that feeling from earlier, the one that led to him overthinking, is replaced by something completely different. Something much lighter.

Jisung accepts, and doesn’t miss the way Woojin smiles. Thumb brushes over Jisung’s knuckles, a formed habit now, and he relaxes. He’s slowly getting used to this. To _them_ , even if he doesn’t know what they are. They’re walking the line between friends and something more, and it’s a little dangerous. Jisung doesn’t know where they’re going to end up.

He’s back in the training room before he knows it. Hyunjin and Chan stand in the ring, absorbed in their own little world. They snap out of it as soon as the door closes shut, and Woojin waves.

“I’m going out for a bit. Think you can take over until I get back?” Woojin calls out. Hyunjin wipes the sweat from his forehead with his arm, but doesn’t take his eyes off of Jisung all the meanwhile.

Jisung lowers his gaze.

“Just don’t take too long. We’re leaving soon,” Chan answers, leaning against the ropes of the ring. _We_. Like he and Hyunjin are interchangeable. Is that what it’s like? To let go completely when you’re with someone? 

Jisung isn’t sure. He’s never understood how one goes from _I_ to _we_. Never really grasped the concept of two people coming together in such a way.

Is that what’s waiting for him with Woojin? The prospect is a bit daunting, but nothing he can’t overcome with time.

 _Time_ , Jisung thinks. That’s what he needs.

Woojin grounds him back to reality. “C’mon. We can go now.”

Jisung can feel himself turning red. He knows he’s more out of it than usual, but he’s also had more to think about lately. Woojin is probably curious about what has him out of it.

“I’m sorry,” Jisung mutters. It’s really not like him, to wander around in his head so much and go off the well-treaded path.

Woojin doesn’t say anything, but he squeezes his hand reassuringly, and it’s enough. It tells Jisung everything he needs to know.

He leads Jisung down the hall, past the medical room and lockers, and through the back entrance. Jisung doesn’t know how he hadn’t seen it earlier, but that’s just how things are. So many layers, and he has yet to uncover them all.

Like with Woojin.

“It’s getting cold,” Woojin comments as they step outside. The sun hasn’t completely set yet, so the sky is tinged with a shade of washed out blue, interrupted by streaks of purple.

“The sky looks pretty.” What happened to Jisung’s ability to roll with the punches and hold a conversation smoothly? If Woojin seems to notice, he doesn’t point it out.

“It does,” Woojin agrees, but he’s not looking at the sky.

Jisung doesn’t say anything else, because he knows what’s coming. They walk in silence instead, the streets empty of workers and pedestrians for once. It’s too late for anyone to be getting off of work right now.

Jisung welcomes the emptiness with renewed vigor. His mind feels less cluttered this way.

“Whatever’s going on up here,” Woojin’s fingers brush against the side of Jisung’s head comfortingly, tapping lightly, “I hope you’re okay.”

And there’s that weird feeling again, the light, airy one. Jisung thinks he might be floating.

“I’m okay,” Jisung says, firmly. 

Woojin smiles, but doesn’t say anything else.

When they reach Jisung’s apartment, Woojin gives his hand a final squeeze. Untangles their fingers, and says, “I’ll see you before work.”

Jisung smiles. A real, genuine smile, and then he’s gone.

It’s not until Woojin’s gone that he realizes what he meant. 

_Before work_.

The crosswalk, where they always seem to meet.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Now,” Changbin begins, a scary sort of smile on his face as he looks up at Jisung, “that’s how you fight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAA. hi guys i love this chapter. not because its well written or anything like that but because theres FINALLY woosung development. i just love writing them So much
> 
> as always leave a comment or kudos if u enjoyed <3 those keep me alive

Jisung wipes the sweat off of his brow.

Across from him, Changbin’s panting. _It’s been too long_ , he thinks. Already his body has forgetting the strain fighting takes on it.

Yet, the four walls of the ring don’t feel intimidating or like they’re closing in on him, not with Changbin by his side. 

“You’ve got to keep working on your offense. Months have gone by, and yet you still hesitate whenever you fight,” Changbin says then, and he’s got this curious look on his face, like he can’t figure out why Jisung is so stuck on defense.

Jisung doesn’t understand what it means. He doesn’t have the time to pull it apart either, because Changbin’s lunging at him again, their brief moment of rest over.

Jisung stumbles backwards, opting to duck instead of responding, and he knows he’s made the wrong decision as soon as his body moves back, tensing.

Changbin falters, and then steps back without throwing a single punch, shaking his head in disapproval.

“You’re never gonna improve if you keep backing out.” There’s a sense of finality to Changbin’s voice that makes Jisung grit his teeth out of frustration.

 _You’re never gonna improve_ resonates in his mind, bouncing off the walls until it becomes unbearable.

 _Never_. 

Jisung hates that word. Fighting is fluid. It evolves over time, and so do fighters. There isn’t supposed to be such a thing as never. Not in Jisung’s book, at least.

This time, Jisung’s the first to make a move, fist aimed for Changbin’s abdomen. He knows he can make it.

Even now, he’s playing it safe. The abdomen is usually an easy target—Changbin tends to lift his hands to protect his face from absorbing any force, leaving the rest of his body exposed. It’s common in most fighters, Jisung’s noticed.

Which means aiming for it won’t help him improve. He can master this one punch all he wants. It’ll only leave him weak in other areas when it comes down to his fighting style overall.

Sure enough, Jisung’s fist connects with Changbin’s stomach, but he’s unfazed as he steps backwards, bouncing up on his feet energetically.

“C’mon, Jisung. Stop taking the easy way out,” Changbin chastises, and he pauses briefly to push the hair out of his eyes. His eyes are focused, never leaving Jisung’s own.

Jisung scowls at his words. _Easy way out_. 

“Are you saying you _want_ me to aim for your face?” Jisung asks, exasperated. They’ve been at it for a while now, leaving his patience stretched thin. He’s not usually like this. Not with Changbin.

Changbin is different, too. He seems tense, like there’s something Jisung doesn’t know.

And, well. Jisung doesn’t know how to ask, so he lets it slide this time.

“Yes, Jisung. As long as it’s something new, just go for it,” Changbin responds, and he takes a step forward.

Jisung tenses, pressing his feet into the ground below him.

Changbin doesn’t move, so Jisung does. This time, he aims for Changbin’s face. Hand swings around the side, and meets directly with the sloping of Changbin’s cheekbone.

Except he ends up using the wrong amount of force, and when he pulls back, his hand is throbbing.

Undeterred, Changbin launches after him. Jisung side steps at the last moment, and uses his momentum to jab his fist into Changbin’s side, something he doesn’t usually do.

Changbin stumbles, but catches himself at the last minute, hands coming up to grip at the rope spanning the ring.

Jisung hadn’t even realized they left the center of the ring up until now.

“Now,” Changbin begins, a scary sort of smile on his face as he looks up at Jisung, “that’s how you fight.”

—

Jisung likes to think the crosswalk is _their_ place, never mind the fact that it’s constantly filled with other 9 to 5 workers who have been dulled down by the blunt edge of the knife that life carries, or the chaos surrounding them.

They aren’t holding hands, not really, but Jisung’s fingertips keep brushing against Woojin’s hand anyway. Each touch sends the butterflies in his stomach into a frenzy, until it’s more like a storm than anything else.

“I saw you practicing with Changbin over the weekend,” Woojin confesses, amidst the chatter enveloping them.

Jisung is surprised.

“Really? I didn’t see you anywhere,” He responds, running through his memory of the day again, just in case he missed any sign of Woojin’s presence.

“I just passed through to get something, but you seemed to be doing good,” Woojin continues, and when Jisung glances over, he’s staring.

Jisung looks away, embarrassed.

“I could be better, actually,” He admits. “My offensive skills still need improvement.”

Woojin hums.

“You’ll get there soon enough,” Woojin reassures him eventually, and this time when their fingers brush, Woojin folds them together. It’s different, now. It feels right, to initiate this sort of contact and revel in its familiarity.

Jisung doesn’t say anything about it, but his face burns red from their proximity. It’s a good kind though, the one that he’s grown accustomed to simply because of Woojin.

“I hope so,” Jisung says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Where conversations used to come so easily to him, he finds himself completely tongue tied around Woojin.

Is this what it’s like? To carry these feelings around? To face them?

“So,” Woojin begins, clearly trying to change the subject. Jisung can't help it. He starts sweating. “Theoretically, if I was going to ask you out on a date, what would your response be?”

And for a second, Jisung forgets how to breathe. Like his heart has swallowed his lungs and completely taken over. Replaced oxygen with blood.

Not one to be forgotten, his mind kicks into gear, and he’s swimming in his sea of thoughts yet again.

Is this really okay? Shouldn’t _he_ be the one asking, and not Woojin?

So many questions, and not enough answers.

The signal light blinks green, stirring Jisung out of his stupor.

Woojin doesn’t move. He’s waiting, as patient as ever. Jisung loves that about him.

 _Loves_. He takes a deep breath, shocked.

“Hypothetically? I'd say yes,” He finally blurts out. But his mind is spinning, because he wants this more than anything and he wants Woojin, but there’s so much to be considered still, so much to mull over and examine and worry about.

And, yeah, part of it is him overthinking it.

“ _Jisung_.” Fingertips squeeze his own, and he finds himself subconsciously relaxing.

“I wouldn’t have asked if things weren’t okay between us,” Woojin reminds him, because he’s Woojin, and he knows Jisung as well as the palm of his hand.

Which is reassuring. To be understood, that is.

“I know. I just get stuck in my head sometimes,” Jisung confesses, right as he notices the signal light.

He tugs on Woojin’s hand. “I think we should go.”

But the light is blinking red already, and Jisung had somehow missed the numbers counting down a few seconds ago.

“It’s okay. We have time,” Woojin says, pulling Jisung back and closer to him. It’s slightly chilly outside, so Jisung doesn’t mind. Not at all.

“I can cook,” Woojin offers, and it takes Jisung a second to realize he must be talking about their hypothetical date.

“You can cook?” Jisung asks. He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised. Maybe there are still things he needs to learn about Woojin.

Like what he does in his free time. If he’s a morning person who wakes with the rising of the sun, like Jisung, or if he puts water on his toothbrush before or after he puts on the toothpaste. If he sleeps on the left or right side of the bed. Or in the middle.

It’s the small things. The habits that go by unnoticed unless you spend enough time with someone. Jisung wants to know all of those. He wants to _know_ Woojin. He wants to understand him and see him at his worst but also at his best.

Jisung, to put it simply, wants it all.

He doesn’t know what’s holding him back.

“I have to survive somehow,” Woojin jokes, a trace of a laugh on his lips, and Jisung feels at ease instinctively.

This time, when the light flashes green, Woojin moves, and so does Jisung.

“I’m thinking Wednesday. I can get Chan to watch over the club for me in the evening, and I know you only train over the weekend,” Woojin explains.

Jisung hesitates. It’s perfect, isn’t it? 

Woojin doesn’t say anything else, because understanding and patience are two-fold and Woojin carries both of those with him, cherishes them.

At least, that’s how it comes off as to Jisung.

“Wednesday is perfect,” Jisung confesses. There’s nothing holding him back, nothing tangible. His fears and anxieties are baseless, and he’s tired of feeding them with his overflowing thoughts.

“We can walk together. After work. Unless you want to go home and change.” And for once, Woojin sounds flustered instead of Jisung.

It’s like the tables have turned. Like it’s Woojin’s turn to be embarrassed.

“No, we can go over to your place together. If that’s okay.” Now Jisung is the one that’s blushing, and he doesn’t know why.

Woojin is all smiles when he spares a glance at him. Jisung thinks the butterflies in his stomach might tear through him if they keep this up.

—

“I have spare clothes, if you want,” Woojin offers that Wednesday night, reappearing from the kitchen.

Jisung hovers awkwardly, stuck between half-sitting and half-standing over by the couch.

Then he notices the apron Woojin’s fitted over his suit, and he can’t help it. He bursts into giggles, hand covering his mouth as an attempt to quiet down, but to no avail.

Woojin smiles, like he’s indulging Jisung. “It’s the apron, isn’t it?”

Jisung nods, face red from trying to hold in his laughter.

“I left some clothes for you in the guest bedroom, if you want to change, by the way,” Woojin says. Somewhere, Jisung hears a faint _beep_ , and Woojin disappears back into the kitchen without waiting for a response.

Jisung doesn’t know where the guest bedroom is, but he wanders down the hall anyways, peeking into rooms as he goes. It wouldn't hurt to change clothes. He feels too stiff in his suit.

When he spots what he assumes is Woojin’s room, he blushes, like he’s invading his personal space, and moves on, trying to ignore how neat it is. And the bare walls, which puzzles Jisung. 

He stumbles across the guest room eventually, noticing the neatly folded pile of clothes on the bed immediately. He forgets about Woojin’s room as soon as he sees the clothes, walking over to change.

Jisung’s yanked off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt most of the way when he hears Woojin walk in. And then he’s fumbling for the clothes on the bed to press against his chest in a feeble attempt to cover himself up.

When he looks over, Woojin has a hand covering his eyes. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I just sort of assumed you were done by now, which I’m realizing was a mistake.”

Jisung smiles sheepishly.

“It’s alright. Nothing you haven’t seen before, I guess,” Jisung says, softly. He makes his way over to the door, using his free hand to gently push Woojin out of the frame.

“I’ll meet you in the kitchen when I’m done, yeah?” He asks, fingers twisting around the doorknob as he moves to pull the door closed. He barely registers Woojin’s response through his blooming embarrassment.

When it falls into place with a soft _click_ , Jisung slumps against the door, flushed a bright red.

 _Nothing you haven’t seen before_ rings through his head, and he groans, wishing he had more of a filter when it came to Woojin.

After a long couple of agonizing seconds, Jisung straightens himself back up and continues with what he was doing earlier.

When he’s done, he makes his way back down the hallway, work clothes in hand. Unsure of where to leave them, he places them carefully onto the couch.

Truth be told, Woojin’s clothes are quite comfortable. A little big (Jisung has to cuff up the pants and push up the sleeves of the sweater), but he doesn’t mind. Not enough to say anything, and certainly not enough to put his suit back on.

He treks into the kitchen quietly, determined to help, and Woojin notices him almost immediately. His expression softens as he takes in Jisung’s appearance, smiling gently.

Everything about Woojin is gentle. The way he moves. Speaks. Looks at Jisung. 

“What?” Jisung asks, trying not to smile. Woojin won’t stop staring at him from the other side of the island, and it’s all so _new_. It’s new and different and nothing like he’s ever experienced before, but Jisung wouldn’t change it for the world.

“Nothing,” but he’s got that smile on his face and a specific gleam in his eyes that Jisung can’t seem to pinpoint down.

Jisung leaves it at that, not wanting to press any further. He folds back the sleeves of the sweater Woojin had let him borrow, and makes his way over to the counter besides him.

“How can I help?” He asks, leaning over the sink to turn on the faucet. He yelps at the feeling of hot water hitting skin, twisting the faucet in the opposite direction. Cold water soothes his skin within seconds, but it’s already an almost angry red from the heat.

“You don’t have to help. I have it all covered,” Woojin insists. 

Jisung looks around for something to dry his hands with, and says, “Felix told you about my cooking skills already?” as he grabs a dry rag.

“As soon as he heard I was cooking dinner for you. Don’t even try to go near the meat,” Woojin warns, but there’s a slight hint of humor in his voice.

Jisung grins, returning the rag back where he found it. He finds himself standing next to Woojin regardless. (It’s not like he knows where Woojin is keeping the food, so it can’t hurt to observe).

“You know,” Woojin starts, voice loud over the sound of the knife slicing cleanly through the vegetables laid out in front of him. “I was so sure that you would say no to me.”

Jisung fumbles with the sleeves of the sweater he’s wearing, pretending he’s overly interested in a stray piece of fiber that’s come undone. He doesn’t even remember to feel guilty about ruining the sweater, too focused on Woojin’s words.

“But you still asked,” Jisung says, his own voice quiet in comparison. When did to go from being the loudest person in the room to the quietest? Was it all because of Woojin?

“I did,” Woojin agrees. The knife scrapes across the cutting board as he dumps the ingredients into a pan, and then continues chopping. “But what can I say? I’m a bit of a romantic.”

 _A romantic_ , Jisung thinks. That’s sweet.

“Well, consider yourself lucky, because I almost said no,” Jisung admits, and he’s not scared to say it. 

There are parts of Woojin that he has yet to familiarize himself with just yet, but he knows that much at least. That Woojin wouldn’t be upset with him for it, or be thrown off by his blunt forwardness. If anything, Jisung is as honest as they come across.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” and this time, it’s Woojin’s voice that’s quiet. Barely heard over his strangely methodical chopping. 

Jisung feels as if he’s floating. Maybe it’s the sheer amount of butterflies that have made his stomach their own permanent residence, flapping their wings repeatedly.

“Me too,” Jisung admits. Part of him wishes Woojin wasn’t occupied at the moment, so he could fold their fingers together in the gesture that’s already become second nature to Jisung.

Instead, he waits.

Woojin finishes soon enough, floating around the kitchen to finish preparing the meal. Jisung stands by the counter aimlessly, wondering if there’s any chance of him helping without ruining the dinner.

Deciding that there isn’t, Jisung stays put. 

—

Jisung learns that Woojin has an affinity for cooking. It’s not something he does often, since he gets hung up at the club most nights, but he finds the time for it every once in a while.

And Jisung likes this. He likes learning these aspects of Woojin. 

“I hope you like it,” Woojin confesses, once they’re seated at the table. There’s no candle or roses or anything romantic, but Jisung barely notices. 

His attention keeps drifting back towards Woojin, too focused on him to pay attention to anything else. 

“Trust me. Anything is better than what comes out of my kitchen,” Jisung reassures him, unable to hold back a small laugh. 

He can’t remember the last home cooked meal he had. Unless Felix bringing him lunch into the office every once in a while counts, but he doesn't think so. This feels different.

This feels sincere. And welcomed. 

Not that Felix’s meals aren’t either of the above. _My bad_ , Jisung thinks, as if Felix is aware of the constant stream of thoughts in his head.

“I’m sure you can get the hang of it if you practice enough.” Bless Woojin’s soul. He is so kind, so open and reassuring. Even when it comes to something as simple as this.

But he’s never seen Jisung cook either, so maybe that’s why.

“Wait until you see me cook, hyung,” Jisung laughs.

Woojin raises an eyebrow and says, “Is that your way of suggesting a 2nd date?”

Jisung pauses, the reality of his words just now hitting him. He should’ve been more careful (Woojin might not even want another date), but it’s too late now. He might as well roll with the punches and see where it takes him.

“Pretty much. Except I’m not exactly sure how ruining food can be considered a date,” Jisung responds, trying to keep his tone light.

He’s getting better at this. He feels more at ease, and it’s easier to joke around now. To loosen up his shoulders and carry the conversation without getting lost in a sea of his thoughts.

“I can help you,” Woojin offers, and that weird feeling is back. The light one that works up the butterflies in his stomach into a frenzy.

Jisung can’t help it. He blushes. And it’s nothing like in the books or movies, because the blood rushing to his face makes the room feel significantly warmer. Makes his cheeks burn red—not the pretty pink that’s usually described—and leaves him wanting to press the palms of his hands into his cheeks in a thinly veiled effort to hide it.

“Sounds like a date.” Is Jisung dizzy, or is this just what it’s like to be in love? He can’t really tell anymore, almost as if the line has blurred.

—

It’s accidental, the way Jisung ends up in Woojin’s arms sometime after their dinner.

The thing is that Jisung’s always been affectionate. Woojin just happened to be _there_ , comfortable and warm. Inviting.

Which brings them to where they are now. Never mind the fact that Woojin’s body is unfamiliar against his (it certainly has been awhile since he’s done this), but Jisung is Jisung and he seeks comfort in closeness.

That’s part of the reason why he’s laying on his side, with Woojin behind him. Arms have found a home around Jisung’s middle, and the steady _thump thump_ of Woojin’s heartbeat presses into Jisung’s spine, acting as a reminder of his presence.

They’re watching some sort of movie in the living room, but Jisung hasn’t been paying attention. He can’t tell if Woojin has been either. If he’s distracted by Jisung’s proximity the way he is by Woojin’s.

Probably not. Jisung’s mind tends to roam around constantly, much more than other people’s. Or that’s how it feels like, at least.

“Thank you,” Woojin says, breaking the silence between them. 

Jisung’s eyebrows pinch together at his words, wondering what he could mean.

“For what?” He asks. He can’t see Woojin from this angle, and the couch is too small for him to shift.

“For coming,” Woojin responds, quietly. Jisung can’t help it. He stiffens like it’s a reflex, and his mind scoops up Woojin’s words and runs with them.

He wills himself to breathe, to feel the way his rib cage expands and contracts with every inhale and exhale.

“I’m sorry. It’s not that I’m confused about my feelings or anything along those lines. I just hesitate a lot,” Jisung admits, and it feels good. It feels good to say it out loud and acknowledge this part of him, whether he loves it or not.

“I don’t think that’s something you need to apologize for,” Woojin says in response, and his hand is searching for Jisung’s.

Jisung gives in, and their fingers twist together easily. Their joined hands rest across Jisung’s stomach, bringing Woojin even closer to him.

“I know, but I feel like I should. There’s no reason for me to be stuck in my head this much.” Another exhale, and this time some of his burden melts away with the breath leaving his lungs.

“You can always tell me what goes on up there,” Woojin offers. It is not insistent or begging, just an offer. 

An offer. A simple one, at that. Jisung pauses, trying to decide.

“Don’t get me wrong. I get stuck up there more often than not as well, but the trick is to learn how to pull yourself out of it,” Woojin continues, sensing Jisung’s hesitance. It’s a lot to absorb, a lot for his brain to scrutinize and nitpick and—

There he goes again, taking a thought and carelessly running with it.

“Baby steps, right?” Almost as if Woojin can tell what’s going through his mind.

(Where Jisung is an open book, Woojin is the exact opposite).

“Baby steps,” Jisung agrees.

For now, Jisung indulges himself. Indulges himself in the feeling of being pressed close to Woojin, and the way their hands are slotted together in this somewhat clumsy way. 

Long fingers fitted in between Jisung’s own, and he feels like he’s coming home. Like he’s built a home in the walls of Woojin’s heart, safe and comfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope jisungs character makes sense? hes just somewhat hesitant considering everything thats happened and he gets lost in his mind sometimes and honestly i am Totally projecting onto him (that is exactly how i am) but i hope it isnt like...confusing or anything since hes slowly learning how to deal with it!!
> 
> also. am considering making the next chapter minbin. maybe from minhos perspective? am accepting opinions n thoughts about that :p


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But it’s just a daydream. Changbin doesn’t blush and Minho doesn’t go around whispering well-kept secrets for others to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmm i think theres maybe around two chapters left of this fic? it depends on how i end up approaching the next chapter really! id like to say i have this all planned out (lol) but its pretty loosely outlined so im just running with what i have :p 
> 
> this fic turned out a lot longer than expected tbh but when i say slow burn i guess i Really do mean it so. anyways i guess i just got really excited over creating this whole world and following the other characters lives that it became Much longer 
> 
> also!! this is another minbin chapter!! (the first part is a flashback if that isnt clear) i love writing them so much :( the next one will be back to woosung + their development which i am. excited for!!!!
> 
> as always leave a kudos or comment if u enjoyed!! they mean so much <3

Minho isn’t doing well.

“Your punches are weak,” Changbin points out after a particularly terrible jab, wiping the sweat off of his brow. He’s unsmiling, but it doesn’t throw Minho off. 

It’s been almost a week since Minho’s started fighting. He’s grown used to Changbin’s habits by now, which is absolutely fascinating to him. All it takes is a week for him to understand Changbin. 

“Tell me how to make them better,” Minho insists, undeterred. He’s here to learn.

Changbin pauses, and then curls his fingers up into a tight fist. Despite his silence, Minho does the same.

It’s useless, because Changbin’s hand falls back to his side. “You need to build up your strength first.”

Still, Minho is undeterred.

“Tell me how,” He repeats. Minho isn’t sure where this urge came from, the urge to grow and learn how to fight. 

Maybe it’s the way Changbin had gripped his hand when they first met, and said he could teach him. Or the way Changbin led him into the training room for the first time and promised to take care of him no matter what. Maybe that’s just how Changbin is with everyone, and Minho’s simply blindly falling.

Changbin fiddles with his gloves, pulling them off smoothly. Minho takes it as his cue to do the same, except he fumbles with them more than Changbin does, clearly a novice in comparison.

“Do you run?” Changbin asks, carefully stretching his fingers. Minho copies his movements. He feels a little silly, doing everything Changbin does.

Minho shakes his head. 

“Well, now you do.”

—

Changbin takes him out to eat afterwards, when Minho’s muscles are aching and he’s still trying to keep his lungs filled with oxygen.

“This isn’t gonna be easy,” He confesses over the sizzling of meat.

Minho clenches his jaw, annoyance tinting his features. “It’s been a week. I would've given up by now if I thought it was too hard.”

Changbin nods, fiddling with the food on his plate.

“Besides, I need the money,” Minho says. There’s no shame in his voice, no signs of regret or guilt for his motives. It’s not like he’s the first to do it.

“A lot of people get started for that exact same reason. What I’ve come to realize is that they eventually develop a passion for fighting, but each person to their own, I guess,” Changbin tells him. When Minho looks up at him, his eyes are soft and sparkle under the lights, like he knows something Minho doesn’t.

Minho scowls. “I just need to get through school.”

Changbin stabs at a piece of beef, but doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

“I’ll do everything I can to make sure that happens,” Changbin says, breaking the silence.

Minho doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Anything he wants to say is conveyed through the upward tilt of his lips and the curling of his fingers into a tight fist against the tabletop.

Changbin smiles through a mouthful of food and it’s enough for Minho to relax. 

For the first time in ages, he feels safe, sitting across from Changbin and memorizing the sloping and widening of his nose and the half-moon shape of his eyes.

—

Minho, all things considered, is doing okay, despite everything.

The only caveat is that their conversation keeps playing over and over again in his head, like an awful movie on repeat. Over and over again, he hears him. The sound of his voice. Minho hears the way he cried, feels the way they held each other—the way Changbin held him.

It’s quite foolish to dwell on it. Minho is well aware of the fact, but there’s nothing else for him to grasp at except those few moments. They act as a lifeline, keeping him afloat.

He has to go back eventually. (Is this what it was like for Jisung? Minho feels a brief pang of guilt). Felix is nothing if not dedicated, and there’s only so many times he can ask Minho to come before he starts pestering him with questions. Questions Minho doesn’t want to answer, or doesn’t have the answer to.

So he really shouldn’t be surprised when he walks into the training room and comes face to face with Changbin. He shouldn’t be surprised when Changbin takes one look at him, and goes to gather his things. Not a single word exchanged, just shoulders brushing against one another and the brief stinging of tears.

Minho wonders if Changbin’s crying, too. If the sound of the door slamming shut masks the sound of a choked sob, or if he’s simply imagining it.

But Minho’s letting his mind wander. There’s no point in thinking about all of these different scenarios, not when it doesn’t change anything. Changbin had asked him for some time that night, after everything. Time to gather his thoughts and emotions. Time to pull himself together and put all the pieces into place.

And Minho? Well, he’s nothing if not patient. Besides, it’s too hard to look at him, to be around him and hear him and know that nothing’s changed between them.

Felix is eyeing him from the mat, where he must’ve been waiting for him. Minho drops his bag off to the side, and quietly joins him.

Stretching helps him stay focused. Minho’s always been good with routines, good at figuring them out and mastering them down to every single detail.

“Changbin-hyung left in a hurry when he saw you,” Felix says, softly. Minho continues stretching, pulling his arm to the side. He welcomes the faint burn that accompanies the exercise. 

It feels real. Tangible.

“He did,” Minho agrees, and he moves fluidly into his next stretch. It’s better to not linger on just one; the chances of getting injured are significantly lower this way. 

Felix’s mouth presses into a straight line, but he doesn’t say anything as he leans down to continue stretching. 

Preoccupied, Minho’s mind leaves behind all thoughts of Changbin. For now, that is. He focuses on the way his limbs move instead, adjusting according to each exercise ingrained into his brain. There’s a faint burning sensation that follows all of them—he shouldn’t have been so lax in his training these past couple of days— but he doesn’t mind.

“Your choice. Focus mitts, or we go in the ring,” Minho finally says, breaking the silence between them. When he looks up, Felix is already done with his last exercise.

Minho scowls. He took too long to finish.

“Let's go in the ring,” Felix suggests, after a moment of concentration. Minho nods, crouching down to grab the roll of tape he keeps in his bag. He lets Felix put it on first, going through the last part of their warm-up routine instead.

“Is everything okay? With you and Changbin-hyung?” Felix asks then, not bothering to let it go, like Minho wishes he would. The white tape seems more bright than usual against Felix’s skin. 

That’s the thing about Felix. He pushes and pushes and chips away until you break. But it takes a lot for Minho to fall apart and let his emotions barrel through.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Minho responds. His own hands are painted white as well, and it is familiar. Easing, to carefully throw himself back into this world, the one Changbin introduced him to not too long ago.

He tries not to think about that, but it’s useless. Changbin is everywhere. He’s in the worn down mat and the fraying ropes of the ring where they used to fight together, back when Minho was on the scrawnier side and was a little too quick to spit out responses. He’s in the locker room, in the faint squeaking of shoes against worn tile after a match and the curling of tape on the ground, long forgotten by other boxers. 

He’s in Minho’s kitchen by the coffee maker after they’ve both had long nights. Changbin drinks his black with nothing added. Minho’s has it memorized for ages now. 

Changbin’s by that stupid blue couch of his, where they eat takeout together when they’re both too tired to cook anything.

Changbin’s everywhere. Every punch, every hit and every connection. It’s impossible for him not to be. He taught Minho everything he knows, so it only makes sense that he’d look for him in everything.

“Yeah.” Felix is giving him a strange look, eyebrows pinched together and mouth turned downwards. “Nothing to worry about,” He repeats, as if he’s trying to convince himself. 

Minho doesn’t say anything else. There’s not much of a point in bringing it up. He doesn’t want a repeat of the look Changbin had given him, one mixed with pity and guilt.

He busies himself with putting the tape away, listening carefully to the sound of Felix walking towards the ring. Minho zips his bag closed, pushing it over to the side. He stands, making his way over to Felix.

“Lets just practice, yeah? We can work on technique after I see what you need to work on,” Minho suggests. It’s a good approach, really. Only time can show Felix’s strengths and weaknesses.

Although, he would not be surprised if Felix didn’t have a single weakness. If he was all sharp, pointed edges with no room to press down and for Minho to mold him into a better version of himself.

—

Minho wishes Changbin would stop by.

The table in his break room feels larger than before now that Changbin is no longer sitting across from him. No one to crack stupid jokes with or smile when Minho realizes he’s forgotten to grab a fork for his lunch.

He misses him with a deep ache in his chest and nothing more. Or so he tries to tell himself. It’s easier that way, to pretend that Changbin’s absence isn’t affecting him.

—

It’s approximately _6:32 pm_ when Minho’s phone buzzes. He’s just barely gotten home from work—most of the kids stay later, especially the younger ones—and he’s exhausted, but seeing the message flash across the screen reinvigorates him.

He knows who it is before he even reads the message. He’s smiling as soon as he sees Changbin’s name. It’s second nature to him, despite the predicament they’re currently in.

So, when Changbin’s at his doorstep not even 10 minutes later, Minho is giddy. It’s been too long —he’s lost track of the days—and he wants nothing more than a simple _hello_. 

The first thing Minho notices when he opens the door is that Changbin looks tired. It twists his heart a little bit, knowing that he hadn't been sleeping well. He tries not to think about it too much but there are half-moons under his eyes and Minho can’t stop staring, can’t stop reminding himself of the toll this is taking on Changbin.

Changbin’s looking at him funny.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

“Come inside, ” Minho says softly.

When Changbin shakes his head, Minho’s surprised. He doesn’t know why else Changbin would show up at his doorstep.

Neither of them speaks, fumbling with the silence until Changbin looks up at him, determined, and blurts out, “How long?”

Minho understands right away, but it takes him a moment to compose himself. “I’m not sure.” 

Changbin isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s looking past him, to the wall of the door maybe, or the sliver of his living room unprotected by the door. 

“Were you just never going to say anything?” Changbin asks, and there’s a sense of urgency in his voice that Minho doesn’t understand. Urgency mixed with desperation, a side of Changbin that he rarely sees.

This question, however, throws him for a loop. It’s not that Minho’s never considered it. In fact, it’s been on the tip of his tongue for weeks now.

It’s on the tip of his tongue whenever they’re laying on the couch, Changbin tucked into the corner and Minho right next to him. It’s on the tip of his tongue when he goes over to Changbin’s apartment and the latter slides him one of his mugs and says, ”Just the way you like it, ” in that stupidly teasing voice of his.

It’s on the tip of his tongue when they’re in the training room together and Minho wants nothing more than to end the silence between them. It’s on the tip of his tongue when Changbin tells him to take a break, and hands him a water bottle.

It’s on the tip of his tongue when they walk home together, Changbin slinging an arm around Minho’s shoulder and pulling him close with the excuse that it’s too cold, that one of them will catch a cold otherwise. Minho never complains. Even if affection isn’t his strong suit.

He thinks about it a lot. How Changbin would react, if they’d talk about it or if Changbin would just go silent, unsure of what to say.

The thought is always there. Minho can’t escape it, nor can he bring himself to say it. Not until recently, that is.

So, Minho swallows his pride and dignity. “I’ve considered it before.” He leaves a lot of it unspoken, like the fact that feeling Changbin’s heartbeat when they’re pressed together on his couch is almost enough for him to say it, that the way their hands brush always felt like a silly little sign to him, a sign to just say it already.

But none of those scenarios ever came to life.

Minho wishes they did because most of them ended quite happily. They ended with Minho speaking softly over the sound of Changbin’s heart going _thump thump_ and Changbin admitting that he’s felt the same way this entire time.

Or he tells him over their morning coffee and Changbin almost spills it everywhere because he’s always been clumsy and Minho’s reaching across the never-ending counter to take the cup from him, fingers skimming Changbin’s when he admits his feelings for Minho in turn.

Or he tells him at work, when Changbin stops by to see him. They’re standing over the kids, who recognize Changbin by now and crowd around him like _he’s_ the one who works there and not Minho. He tells him over the sound of squealing and kids yelling excitedly over the prospect of a visitor, and Changbin smiles all the meanwhile. Changbin smiles because it’s nothing more than a flimsy daydream and Minho’s imagination running wild.

Sometimes, he tells him on his blue couch. Changbin’s pressed up against Minho’s chest, his breathing steady and calm. (It'd taken them ages to be comfortable enough with each other for this). They’re both quiet until Minho stirs and leans in closer to him. It’s a whisper of a confession, a small wisp, but Changbin hears it anyways and Minho swears his face is a pretty shade of pink. 

But it’s just a daydream. Changbin doesn’t blush and Minho doesn’t go around whispering well-kept secrets for others to hear.

The thing is that these are all little moments. Small, simple moments of pure indulgence that end up spinning into these various daydreams and scenarios. The kind of indulgence that Minho gives himself when it’s 4 am and he needs something to keep him going.

“You’ve considered it,” Changbin echoes. Minho snaps out of it, hating that he got swept away in his thoughts so easily. 

“Yeah.” Minho isn’t sure if he said the right or wrong thing.

Changbin bites at his lip anxiously, silent, and Minho just now notices how red it is from what must be a repeated action. For some reason, it makes him uneasy, knowing that something’s gnawing away at Changbin’s mind.

“You should’ve told me,” Changbin finally says. If Minho looks closer, he could see the faint appearance of blood on Changbin’s lips.

Now Minho’s the one bubbling with questions. “Would it really have changed anything? Would we be anywhere different if I told you sooner?”

Changbin scowls, the first clear sign of his frustration bleeding through. “I don’t know! _Maybe_.”

Minho doesn’t know what to make of that. _Maybe_. It’d be so easy to take that word and simply run with it. Let it give him the hope he’s been craving ever since Changbin asked for some time, but it’s also the easiest way for him to get hurt.

Because what happens if he breaks out into a full on sprint with that word pressed against his chest and turns back around, only to not find Changbin behind him?

Minho is scared. He doesn’t want that to happen. He’s too scared to hope that Changbin would go after him.

“Maybe? What does maybe mean?” Minho’s chock full of questions today, with so many left unanswered.

Changbin runs a hand through his hair out of frustration instead of answering, leaving it sticking out at various strange angles. Minho can’t stop staring at it for some reason.

“I don’t know. Maybe if you told me earlier, maybe if it was before your feelings got bigger, then I could’ve—” 

Changbin cuts himself off, refusing to go on. He isn’t looking at Minho anymore.

Minho sucks in a breath sharply, already understanding what Changbin’s implying despite his sudden silence.

“You couldn’t have forced yourself to like me back,” Minho says. “I couldn’t ask that of you. Why do you think I never said anything?”

Changbin’s hand comes up to rub at his cheek, almost as if he’s exhausted. Minho’s heart aches for him.

“You never know,” Changbin finally says, but it’s quiet and lacks any real malice behind it. 

Minho doesn’t know what to say. He knows that there must be more to this. Changbin wouldn’t have showed up for nothing. He couldn’t have.

So, Minho steps to the side. He pushes the door open a little wider, and waits to see if Changbin accepts. It’s a gamble because Changbin never said he was ready to come back, that he already had enough time to sort everything out.

But Minho does it anyways, hoping something good will come out of it. It’s unusual for him.

“Come in. Please,” Minho says. A hint of desperation fills the cracks in his voice as he says it. Minho is not desperate. He is careful and put together. This is not him.

It is not long before Changbin walks through the front door and makes himself comfortable in the worn down folds of his blue couch, with Minho sitting nearby.

Surprisingly, Changbin is the first to speak. “I thought time would fix everything going on with us,” He admits, looking down at his hands. Minho follows his gaze, silent. He isn’t sure where Changbin is going with this, if it’s something good or not.

Minho allows himself a fleeting moment of panic, before he compartmentalizes it and forces himself to move on. That can wait for later.

“The more time that went by, the more I realized something was wrong,” Changbin confesses. The panic inside of Minho almost bursts free at his words, but he manages to keep it restrained.

For now, at least.

“It felt so wrong,” Changbin continues. A brief moment of panic yet again. “Not being with you, I mean.” Minho reels it back in, and lets a surge of relief floods his system instead. It’s a blissful feeling, one that he welcomes.

“At first I just assumed that I wasn’t used to it. But then the days passed by, and the feeling wouldn’t go away.” Minho swears his heartbeat has jumped to his throat now, pounding against the bones and pushing its way up and out of his body. He tries to wrestle it back down.

“Then I realized I missed you, except it was completely different,” Changbin continues. He’s looking at Minho now, a hint of fear in his eyes that Minho doesn’t quite understand. There’s nothing for him to be scared of, nothing that Minho knows about at least.

“I missed you in a way that I hadn’t before,” Changbin says, clear and straight to the point, and Minho thinks he understands what he’s trying to say.

He tries to snuff out the hope growing inside of him before it becomes uncontrollable. There’s always the chance that he’s wrong, that Changbin isn’t going where Minho thinks he is with this conversation and that he’ll only end up even more heartbroken than to begin with.

And maybe a little hope never hurt anybody, but it did hurt Minho. He knows better now. So he waits. He waits to see what Changbin has to say before he takes that ball of hope inside of him and fosters it into something much larger and harder to contain.

“I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like, all of a sudden, I wanted to see you. I wanted to see you smile and hear you laugh and all of these things that I hadn’t thought about before,” Changbin blurts out. 

Minho’s started biting at the inside of his cheek. If he keeps at it, it’ll start bleeding.

“Hyung,” Changbin starts. The taste of blood fills his mouth. He swallows it. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Minho does. At the very least, he thinks he does. But he’s too scared to voice it out loud. Too scared to say that maybe Changbin does have feelings for him and that he just never realized it but it’s all he’s thinking about and he just wants to know. 

Minho wants to know. He doesn’t like living in uncertainty or in limbo, stuck between two worlds.

“I’m not sure,” Minho confesses. Half-lie, half-truth. It’s the best he can offer to Changbin as of right now.

Changbin falters at his response, a slight frown on his face like he was expecting something different.

“I have an idea of what you’re getting at, but I’m scared that I’m wrong,” Minho adds, perhaps a little too hastily because Changbin's head snaps up, eyes wide at his words.

Minho is startled by his reaction. 

“I think,” Changbin pauses, and there it is. Minho’s heartbeat is threatening to burst through the layers of muscle and bone separating it from the outside world. 

There’s a moment of silence, and Minho can’t stop himself from studying the fraying threads of his couch instead of Changbin. Nervousness threatens to overwhelm him from the quietness between them, but he swallows it back down. 

“My feelings are still sorting themselves out,” Changbin finally blurts out. “But I think I might like you,” He adds, almost hastily. 

“I don’t want to say anything for sure because I can’t do that to you. I can’t say it and then take it back later. It’ll only hurt you,” He continues, and there’s something squeezing at Minho’s heart.

It takes him a moment to realize it’s that ball of hope again, growing and surrounding the entirety of his heart with its roots. 

“Oh. _Oh_ ," Minho says. His voice is oddly quiet, (Has it always been like this?) and he can’t stop folding his fingers together, a habit formed out of nervousness and worry throughout the years.

There’s a hurricane tearing through him right now, wrenching his thoughts apart piece by piece and flooding his mind with torrents of rain but all he can think about is Changbin. All he can think about is Changbin and his touch and the way he feels against Minho’s body when they're pressed up on the couch after endless amounts of coaxing on Changbin's side.

Changbin is a star, shining in the dark, and Minho is just a planet stuck in his orbit.

So, Minho moves. Takes one of Changbin’s hands into his own, and says, “I’ll give you all the time in the world. Anything it takes for you to figure everything out.”

Maybe it’s a trick of the lighting, or Minho’s seeing things, but Changbin’s eyes are shiny like he’s on the verge of tears and the ball of hope inside of Minho is spreading dangerously fast.

For once, Minho can’t bring himself to care. 

For once, he indulges in the feeling of Changbin’s fingers sliding between his and smiles despite himself.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But maybe Woojin is one of those exceptions, an anomaly, or a one in a million that Jisung’s always dreamed of and hoped for. Maybe when he looks at Jisung like he’s the moon lighting up the night sky for the stars, he means it with everything he has in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all i finished writing this chapter and immediately proceeded to burst into tears for reasons i am not sure of i think im just happy to have finished this fic but who knows!! also i have not proofread this at all please disregard any mistakes or typos
> 
> ah. so much to say?! ive never actually gone through and finished a fic before. like a chaptered one. (band fic doesnt count considering its essentially plotless) but ive had so so much fun writing this oh my gosh this fic is literally my baby and i cant believe i didnt give up on it (me and writing have commitment issues)
> 
> ahhh. thank u to like. the four people who read this and commented on updates u guys have no idea how much those motivated me? like just getting One comment sometimes was enough for me to sit down and crank out another update 
> 
> as always leaves kudos or a comment and tell me what u think!! <3 im particularly fond of this chapter

Jisung can’t sleep.

It’s not unusual for him to struggle with soothing his mind and placating it, but it’s different this time. This time, his mind is filled with thoughts of Woojin.

He’s in every crevice, every nook and cranny of Jisung’s mind. The way he smiles at Jisung, the way he brushes their fingers together before taking Jisung’s hand into his, the way Jisung catches him staring when they’re nearing the end of the work day and he wants nothing more than to go home.

Jisung turns onto his left side, and sighs. The clock on his dresser is showing him an angry red _2:24 am_. Which means that if he falls asleep right now, he’d get approximately 4 hours of sleep before he needs to get up for work.

The prospect seems unreachable, so he turns flat on his back and stares up at the ceiling instead. Again, his thoughts wander aimlessly and latch onto Woojin like he’s the only tangible thing in Jisung’s life.

When he sits down and thinks about it, there is still so much Jisung has yet to know Woojin, and it unsettles him. Jisung doesn’t like being left in the dark, or out of the loop. He knows that all he’s offered Woojin are bits and pieces of himself, a chunk here and a sliver there, but he’s gotten nothing in return from Woojin.

But maybe none of this comes easy to Woojin, and Jisung’s simply overthinking it, that there’s more to this story than he realizes.

Jisung rolls over onto his side yet again. The streetlights outside of his apartment floor flood through his window, and that’s how he knows he’s not getting any sleep tonight.

It’s hard not to think about it, which leaves him feeling uneasy. There’s always a chance that Woojin turns out to be someone Jisung wasn’t expecting, and then what? What happens to their memories together and the corner where they meet everyday? Do the butterflies in his stomach reach the end of their life cycle and wither away?

Jisung shakes his head, sinking further into his pillow. That’s a dangerous rabbit hole to fall into, but he does more often than not. He’s found it easier to tumble down into uncertainty instead of false hope. Too many times, Jisung’s expected the worst out of people. Not because he thinks they’re terrible people, but because it hurts less when he’s hit in the face with the grim reality that not everyone is who they seem to be.

But maybe Woojin is one of those exceptions, an anomaly, or a one in a million that Jisung’s always dreamed of and hoped for. Maybe when he looks at Jisung like he’s the moon lighting up the night sky for the stars, he means it with everything he has in him.

Jisung doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to dwell on it either, for fear of it clawing through him mercilessly and refusing to leave.

Jisung kicks off his covers with a sigh, and twists back so he’s facing his popcorn ceiling this time. He feels restless.

He knows that he has a tendency to get stuck in his head. That overthinking is his fatal flaw, his hubris (as Felix would call it), but it’s hard not to. His mind is a churning sea of thoughts and he has more than enough time to wade through the waters, no matter what the consequences may be.

Jisung supposes that’s where the flaw comes in—wading into too deep water without a second thought.

—

Woojin trains alongside him tonight.

“You know, I could’ve sworn you said that you don’t fight,” Jisung says, ignoring the way his lungs are begging for air despite his months of practicing.  
It’s okay, though. The burn reminds him that he’s alive.

“I don’t,” Woojin agrees, and the _thwack_ of skin against leather resonates through the room. Jisung doesn’t even bat an eye, too used to the sound by now. He’d finished training with Changbin earlier, but he stuck around regardless.

“I swore it off after my parents…” Woojin’s voice trails off, and Jisung misses his next swing out of anticipation for what’s coming next.

He takes a step back, and looks over at Woojin, who’s still focused on the task at hand.

“Hyung,” Jisung says. The question forms on the tip of his tongue, begging to be asked. He’s reminded of his doubts and insecurities, of the vagueness Woojin emanates.

 _Thwack_. Jisung draws himself out of his thoughts. It’s rhythmic, the way Woojin hits the boxing bag every few seconds.

“What is it?” Another _thwack_. Frustrated, Jisung reaches out to grab Woojin’s hand. It falls short of the punching bag, and Jisung forces himself to look up at Woojin, who seems confused. 

Jisung tries not to dwell on it.

 _It’s okay,_ he thinks. _I just want to see if he’s willing to open up. Not completely, but at least a little_.

“Your parents,” Jisung starts off uneasily, fumbling to gain some sort of footing in this conversation. “You don’t talk about them a lot.”

Woojin tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. “I don’t.”

The conversation fizzles out quietly after that, but Jisung is desperate to keep it going, racking his mind with endless questions and scenarios. 

“Jisung? Is there something going on?” Woojin asks, quietly and for a second, Jisung is ashamed. Ashamed that he’d even thought to ask Woojin to open up instead of giving him time. Ashamed that he hadn’t just voiced his uncertainties and insecurities earlier.

And, worst of all, he’s ashamed of _himself_ because he should know better at this point.

“It’s nothing.” Maybe Woojin just needs some time and Jisung shouldn’t push him. _Thwack_. Jisung’s knuckles burn, reminding him of who he is.

He throws another punch, and his hand burns a little differently this time. Jisung thinks he might be bleeding, but he doesn’t stop to check, even though he should. He knows better than this.

“My parents are dead,” Woojin finally says, like he knows exactly what’s going on with Jisung, and his next punch is completely off track. He misses the punching bag completely, and has to shift his balance to avoid falling.

Eventually, he turns to face Woojin, who looks embarrassed and not at all what Jisung was expecting. “I’ve only ever told Hyunjin.”

And Jisung understands immediately. This is Woojin trying to show him a small ripple of trust in his unrelenting sea of emotions and thoughts and Jisung doesn’t know why but he’s tearing up and he wants nothing more than to hug Woojin.

“Hyung,” Jisung croaks through his tears and choked up emotions. Woojin is looking at him strangely.

“ _Hyung_ ,” Jisung repeats, and he takes a step towards him.

“Is everything okay?” Woojin asks, confusion bleeding through his voice. Jisung nods, and carefully wraps his arms around Woojin’s waist, bringing him closer. Head pressed against his chest, and he can hear how loudly Woojin’s heart is beating.

“I’m sweaty,” Woojin says, but he wraps his arms around Jisung anyways. “Also, I hope you know I don’t need pity hugs or anything like that.”

“I know.” Jisung’s voice is muffled. “I’m just glad you opened up about it. That means you must trust me.” The happiness in his voice cannot be muffled by clothing or his proximity to Woojin. It’s clear as day.

Woojin’s grip on him lessens, and then he’s bringing one of his hands to cup Jisung’s cheek, that way they’re both looking at each other.

“Did I not make that clear enough before this?” He sounds concerned, like he’s the one who did something wrong.

“No! No, not at all. It’s just that you never really talked about yourself before this and I could never figure out why,” Jisung explains. _It worried me_ , he thinks. But he doesn’t say that out loud. 

Woojin falls silent, and Jisung wonders what’s going through his head. If it’s good or bad.

“I’m not used to it,” Woojin finally says. 

Jisung relaxes. He doesn’t know why he assumed it had something to do with him. 

“I’m friendly with a lot of people here. We have conversations and the like, but the only person I’ve ever really talked to was Hyunjin,” Woojin explains, and Jisung’s starting to understand. He wished he could have understood earlier, before the anxieties and worries ate him from the inside out.

Still, it’s better to realize now than later.

“I didn’t know that,” Jisung says softly. “I guess I assumed you were friends with everyone.”

Woojin shakes his head. “No, I am. It’s just that Hyunjin’s the only person I bothered to let in.”

Jisung lets out a quiet _ah_ , surprised at the turn their conversation’s taken.

Woojin bites his lip, and Jisung is about to respond when he says, “Until I met you.”

Jisung snaps his mouth back shut, surprised. _Until I met you_. 

He drops his gaze, feeling his cheeks heat up once again.

“I know I haven’t said much, but you know more about me than I’ve ever cared to share with anyone else,” Woojin continues.

“You make me _want_ to let you in.”

Jisung feels a surge of warmth from Woojin’s soft hands, so unlike Jisung’s calloused and scarred ones. He lets Woojin fit his fingers in between Jisung’s own, watching all the meanwhile.

He looks up eventually.

“So, is everything okay now?” Woojin asks, and it’s not patronizing or harsh or anything close to negative. It’s soft and trusting, because Woojin is concerned and he cares about Jisung and the thought is so overwhelming.

Jisung takes a deep breath. 

“Of course,” He answers confidently, and he squeezes Woojin’s hand reassuringly, as if to confirm it through touch.

Woojin’s fingertips skim over padded knuckles and the edges of frayed tape, pausing. Jisung watches as Woojin slips his hand out from his, turning it carefully.

“You hurt yourself,” He says, and he looks up at Jisung with equal parts sternness and carefully masked amusement.

Jisung shrugs. “I didn’t mean to.”

Woojin shakes his head, laughing quietly.

“You should be careful if you don’t want your hands to scar,” He advises, and his finger runs over the dried blood lightly. Jisung shivers.

“They’re already scarred and calloused,” Jisung points out.

Woojin shakes his head yet again, but this time he’s threading their fingers together and motioning for Jisung to follow him back to where he keeps the medical supplies.

It’s strangely familiar, the glare of the lights in the hallway and the way his shoes squeak against the ground. Woojin opening the door for him and grabbing a box of bandages is a memory as clear as day to him.

It shouldn’t be. It means Jisung spends too much time getting injured, but it’s part of boxing. No one comes out unscathed.

Jisung’s just not in the habit of being careful enough.

Woojin is quiet as he unwraps Jisung’s hand and wipes the blood off of his knuckles, carefully dabbing at it until the rag is tinted red and Jisung’s knuckles are free of blood.

“You should be more careful,” Woojin scolds, but his voice is filled with concern and kindness Jisung doesn’t understand but appreciates nonetheless.

“I’ll try,” Jisung says. His voice is too small, but if Woojin notices he doesn’t say anything.

Jisung watches him rub disinfectant into the wounds, setting the bottle back down and in exchange for gauze instead. He tilts Jisung’s hands, wrapping it carefully with his lip pinched between his teeth and eyebrows furrowed.

Jisung smiles at how focused Woojin is.

Woojin cups Jisung’s hands together when he’s done, squeezing gently. “There. All better.” The words are warm and unlike anything anyone’s ever said to Jisung before.

Jisung blinks away the sudden onslaught of tears gathering on his lashes, threatening to spill out onto his cheeks, and smiles instead.

—

After that, Woojin gives Jisung pieces of himself in the most unusual of places.

They’re standing on the corner of the street, hands threaded, when Woojin says, “I wanted to go into science when I was younger,” in the midst of 9-5 workers and car horns beeping obnoxiously at the oncoming traffic.

Jisung’s smile is lopsided but fond. “I kinda figured. What with the medical knowledge and everything.”

Woojin laughs, and his thumb brushes the tops of Jisung’s knuckles reassuringly. It’s a habit now.

“After my parents died, I figured taking over the business would be the right thing to do, so that's what I did. I gave up on medical school and got a business degree instead,” He explains, his voice hushed as if it’s some sort of big secret.

There’s a pause, and Jisung takes it as his chance to ask, “Do you regret it?”

Woojin’s response is immediate, a quick shake of his head that tells Jisung everything he needs to know. 

“I don’t. A lot of good things came out of it,” Woojin tells him, and Jisung believes it. He believes him.

Then the light flashes, signaling for them to cross, and the conversation is forgotten amidst the hurried movements of the people around them and cautious eyes looking for approaching vehicles.

—

Jisung stops by Woojin’s desk later that day, fingers tapping against the wood.

“I’m going on a coffee run. Do you want some?” He asks, and he’s biting on the inside of his cheek nervously. Felix insisted that he go out and buy some, which meant asking everyone in the office, Woojin included.

Woojin looks up from his paperwork with a smile. “I don’t like coffee,” He confesses.

Another piece of himself. Jisung isn’t even disappointed by the fact—both he and Felix live off of coffee—since it means he gets to learn another thing about Woojin.

“Oh. That’s good to know,” Jisung responds, and there’s a blush on his cheeks now. He was so sure that Woojin would say _yes_. “Is there anything else you want though?”

Woojin hums, his pen tapping against the desk insistently. “Actually, do you mind if I tag along? You know, to help.”

Jisung breaks into a smile, unable to contain his happiness. 

“Not at all,” He says, and he relishes in the feeling that blooms in his chest when Woojin smiles back at him.

And it turns out that Woojin prefers tea over coffee. He doesn’t like it sweetened, and he’ll only drink it hot. (Iced tea has always felt like an abomination to him, Jisung learns). Jisung, on the other hand, finds tea too bitter and thinks coffee is much more invigorating, especially after a rough night’s sleep.

But it doesn’t matter. What matters is that Woojin actually tends to ramble once he gets comfortable, and he uses his hands to express a lot of his thoughts, something Jisung does more often than not.

He does it so much that he almost spills the cups of coffee in the to-go tray when they’re standing at the corner of the street, waiting for the signal to change. Jisung panics first, his hand shooting out to right the tray with wide eyes.

When it’s clear that a disaster has been avoided, Woojin looks at him sheepishly, clearly holding back a smile.

“I guess we can add clumsy to the list of things that no one knows about you,” Jisung teases, stifling a laugh.

Woojin smiles lopsidedly at him. “Yeah. I think we can.”

—

Chan fist bumps him when Jisung shows up the door later that week, a stark contrast from the thinly veiled caution he used to wear around him. Jisung’s relieved by the small sort of friendship blooming between them. 

“Long time no see,” Chan says, voice taking on a teasing sort of lilt as he smiles, and Jisung rolls his eyes at the jab. 

“I’m not here that often,” Jisung mutters. Chan’s fighting back a smile at his poorly disguised lie.

He raises an eyebrow at him. “No? You’re here almost as much as Woojin is, which, now that I think about it, _does_ make sense.”

Jisung buries his face in his hands at the implication of Chan’s words, choosing not to reply. Distantly, he can hear Chan laughing over the sound of a door opening. 

“C’mon. He should be in there too. I think he had a feeling you would show up,” Chan says, which definitely doesn’t make Jisung feel any better. 

He mumbles out a quiet _thank you_ , adjusting the bag on his shoulder, and heads down the hall. _I think he had a feeling you would show up_ plays through his mind on an endless loop as he walks, and Jisung alternates between smiling stupidly and patting his cheeks with both of his hands to stay calm.

_I think he had a feeling you would show up._

Jisung allows himself one last smile before he’s opening the door to the training room, poking his head in curiously. He’s met with the sight of Hyunjin and Seungmin practicing, and he waves cautiously. 

He’s not sure if Hyunjin’s animosity towards him has changed, but his anxieties are swept away by the wave of Hyunjin’s hand and the begrudging smile on his face. Jisung breathes a sigh of relief, and manages a smile back.

The door slams shut behind him, echoing throughout the room. He walks over to the mat, letting his bag slip off of his shoulders

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Changbin and Minho, and he remembers Felix saying there was something going on between the two of them. Jisung watches Minho’s fingers curl around Changbin’s slowly, and he smiles. 

He looks away eventually, not wanting to intrude.

Jisung isn’t sure where to start, so he chooses to wrap his hands while he considers his options. It’d be best if he started with the warm-up Changbin had taught him, even if it’s time consuming.

He’s stuck between doing the warm-up and skipping it altogether when he hears the sound of the door opening. His head jerks up as if on reflex, and he finds Woojin standing in the doorway, smiling.

Jisung faintly hears the other boxers greeting him with quiet murmurs and the occasional dip of the head. But that’s not what’s important. What’s important is that Woojin really is here, and Jisung’s thinking about what Chan said earlier yet again.

Jisung allows himself one small smile, except Woojin is waving at him in greeting so he caves and does the same, all thoughts of boxing leaving his mind.

Woojin walks over to him eventually, starting with a hesitant, “I figured you would show up eventually.”

Jisung cocks his head to the side, replaying Chan’s words again.

“Yeah. Chan said something similar,” He admits. Woojin hums at that.

“Are you staying long tonight? I thought we could go get dinner together afterwards,” Woojin suggests.

Jisung drops the roll of tape in his hands, and awkwardly bends over to grab it. Woojin reaches down with him, and they end up bumping foreheads.

“Shit. Are you okay?” Jisung asks, noticing the way Woojin brings a hand to his forehead, wincing. Guilt washes through Jisung, and he almost brings a hand to cradle Woojin’s head in an attempt to comfort him.

He stops at the last second, deciding it would be too weird.

“I’m fine. I should’ve figured you would pick it up,” Woojin laughs. Jisung blushes even more so than he already was, still looking at Woojin with a mix of concern and fondness.

“Yes,” He finally blurts out. “We can go to dinner.”

—

When they leave together, Woojin shrugs off his jacket. Underneath it, he’s wearing a loose, silk shirt. It flashes a bright red underneath the street lamps, and Jisung forces himself to look away.

“Here. It’s cold,” Woojin insists. Jisung eyes the jacket warily, not wanting Woojin to be cold for his sake.

“All you have is a t-shirt. _Please_ take it,” Woojin says, and he’s draping it over Jisung’s shoulders before he can even respond.

“But now you’re gonna be cold,” Jisung says softly, looking down at the jacket with dismay.

Woojin looks over at him, his features illuminated by the warm glow of the streetlights. Jisung tries his hardest to not look away. 

Instead of responding, Woojin slides a hand around Jisung’s waist and pulls him closer. He stumbles slightly, surprised, but regains his balance skin enough.

He’s not used to this, to having another person by his side. To having someone this close to him. Not that he minds. Woojin is comfortable and safe and most importantly, _warm_.

“I have you to keep me warm,” Woojin says, quite nonchalantly.

Jisung blushes under the shining of the moon and the yellow light from the streetlights. He prays that Woojin can’t tell and that if he can, he doesn’t point it out.

—

Jisung walks home with him afterwards, mostly because he doesn’t want to leave his side. It feels as if things are finally settling comfortably into place, and Jisung couldn’t be any happier.

And if Woojin doesn’t say anything when Jisung follows him up the stairs to his apartment, then so be it. 

Woojin comes to a stop in front of his door, leaning against it on his side, with Jisung facing him. He looks tired, but his eyes are bright and there’s a hint of a smile on his face regardless.

“Do you wanna come in? I’ll make you coffee,” Woojin offers, and something jumps inside of Jisung’s chest at the prospect.

“If it’s not too late,” Jisung says shyly. 

“Of course it’s not,” Woojin reassures, and he turns to twist his key into the lock, opening it with a quiet click.

Jisung follows him, slipping off his shoes by the door and reaching for the coat hanging on his shoulders. He pauses, unsure of what to do with it.

“Hyung, where do you want me to put it?” He asks, clutching at the fabric in his hands.

Woojin hums, turning to see what he’s talking about. “Oh. Just leave it on the couch or something. Wherever works.”

The smile he gives Jisung makes his knees go weak, and he truly hopes it doesn’t show. He carefully sets the coat down onto the couch, and follows Woojin into the kitchen, socked feet tapping quietly against the floor.

“I’m surprised you even have a coffee maker,” Jisung comments, hovering in the kitchen aimlessly. Woojin turns to look at him, amusement splashed across his face.

“My friends drink it,” He explains. “Also, I had myself convinced that I would like coffee if I tried hard enough, but to no avail.”

Jisung smiles at that.

Woojin turns back to open one of the cabinet doors, reaching for a coffee mug. “You can sit down, if you’d like. It’ll be done soon.”

Jisung hesitates.

“Do you want me to make you tea?” He blurts out.

Woojin looks back at him again, that stupid smile on his face, the one that makes Jisung’s heart flutter the way it does in books and leaves him feeling like there isn’t enough air in the world to calm him down.

“You don’t have to do that,” Woojin says, but Jisung’s already heading over to the same cabinet that was open earlier, raising himself up, up and onto his tippy-toes.

“I want to help,” Jisung counters, and he searches the row of mugs, eyes landing on a red one. Fingertips wrap around it, and he carefully brings it down onto the kitchen counter.

Woojin’s got a funny sort of smile on his face when Jisung looks at him for guidance. “That’s my favorite one.”

How Jisung had managed to choose his favorite out of the countless amount of mugs on the shelf is beyond him. (He’s happy, though).

“Is red your favorite color?” Jisung asks, holding the mug up precariously. Woojin nods, and Jisung adds that to the list of things Woojin has entrusted him with, tucking it into the corners of his mind safely. 

Woojin hands him a packet of tea, which he happily tears open. He stares at the tea bag for a moment, unsure of what to do next.

Then he hears the kettle going off from the stove, and Jisung doesn’t even remember seeing Woojin fill it with water. He watches Woojin pick it up, and Jisung takes it with a quiet _thank you_.

He pours the water into the mug carefully, pretending not to notice the way his hands shake. He sets it down onto the countertop, reaching for the tea bag. He dips it into the water carefully, unsure of where to go from there.

As if on cue, Woojin slides him a mug of coffee.

“I don’t have the iced thing you like to drink, but hopefully this works,” He explains, and the smile on his face is a sort of shy one. Jisung looks at the cup wistfully, feeling a surge of happiness at the sight. 

He looks back up at Woojin, and the warm feeling growing in his rib cage increases by ten-fold. Woojin is staring back at him, and Jisung can’t help it.

He abandons his mug of coffee in favor of making his way into Woojin’s arms to hug him tightly, nose pressed against his chest.

Woojin laughs, a mix of startled and endeared. He brushes a hand through Jisung’s hair as an act of comfort, and pulls him impossibly closer.

“Why the sudden hug?” He asks, quietly. Jisung doesn’t know how to respond. He supposes it’s because he’s feeling very overwhelmed, standing in Woojin’s kitchen where the moon shines through the window and breathing in the scent of tea, mixed with coffee and now Woojin’s cologne.

Jisung is the first to pull away, choosing to wrap his hands around Woojin’s neck instead.

“I think I’m just very happy,” He answers, and his words are betrayed by the achingly big smile on his face.

“Is that so?” Woojin asks, and Jisung laughs, feeling blush rise up to his cheeks yet again.

“Yes. It is,” Jisung answers, and they’re so close that their foreheads are almost touching, that he can see the way Woojin’s eyes reflect the moon and he thinks he’s never seen someone so beautiful.

And then they’re kissing. Jisung can’t tell who initiated it, if Woojin connected their lips or if Jisung got too impatient and did it for him but his fingers curl into the ends of Woojin’s hair and they’re pressed impossibly close and it’s all he could’ve ever wished for.

It doesn’t matter who kissed who. None of it does.

It doesn’t matter because when they kiss, Jisung thinks everything is snapping into place with a soft _click_ , almost as if the axis the world is spinning on corrects itself every so slightly and all of the pieces that make up their little puzzle, their story, finally fit together. 

When Woojin kisses Jisung, he thinks he’s being drawn into Woojin’s orbit, closer and closer than he already was. 

Jisung eventually pulls away with a soft gasp, and Woojin moves so that he’s cupping Jisung’s cheek with one hand. 

“It only took you so long,” Woojin says, and it feels so fucking right. Nothing in Jisung’s life has felt as right as the warmth on his cheek from Woojin’s hand and the way he’s looking at him right now, like Jisung’s the only person in the world.

Woojin smiles at him, and it’s like the planets are re-aligning themselves, shifting to counter the overwhelming amount of love he’s feeling for simply just one person. He’s heard of it before, the feeling of everything in the universe feeling balanced but he never gave it much thought until now.

Until Woojin. With him, Jisung feels as if everything is as it should be. The stars are shining and the planets are slowly spinning in that dance of theirs, and Jisung’s decided that he loves Woojin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it only took them 60k words


End file.
